


Baby don't like it

by NCTH4NKS



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anxiety Disorder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Doctor!Taeyong, Gift Fic, M/M, Panic Attacks, Patient!Winwin, Rough Oral Sex, Underage Sex, Winwin is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NCTH4NKS/pseuds/NCTH4NKS
Summary: Taeyong is having a hard time trying to stay away from his new patient who is growing a little bit too fond of his company.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinees/gifts).



> take two.
> 
> this was supposed to be a birthday present for @shinees but i'm a failure. what's new. i hope you like this aNYWaY. ily and happy new year!!
> 
> huge shoutout to @sad_machine for always cheering me on and listening to my endless rants about how i can't get anything done. she's the best and vv appreciated.
> 
> not proofread.
> 
> happy sinning.

Sicheng was tired. So immensely tired, as if months of insomnia had manifested themselves in the drag of his limbs whenever he'd carry himself to the kitchen in the mornings, just laboriously heaving them up the stairs in the evening after they'd come home from whichever superfluous favor of an event his parents had dragged him and his siblings to. An invariably existent state of fatigue, accompanied by small, commercial-like breaks of hysteria. 

 

Sicheng was sixteen years old. A soft age, when yet a little rough around the edges; the sweet childlike tonality having transformed into a honey-dipped, warm bass while his eyes had remained wide and luminous, beautiful, lathy lashes resting upon a bone structure that could've been described as chiseled, _molded_ by an artist's precisest tools. He had kept a hint of that childlike spark; more than most his age, anyway. And it showed, in the way his mother would put him out for display whenever they'd frequent another excessively proper dinner party, in the way they'd smile and coo, pet his hair as if he was some scarce preciousness, the jewel in his mother's safe that he somehow managed to empathize with so well because it was terrifying just how familiar he was with that sense of imprisonment, despite having the freedom to travel almost any site that he could possibly desire to call on. Dong Sicheng was a prisoner in his own weary state, in his shoes that were always tied too tight and in the grip his father would have on his shoulder. 

 

He was confined in his perplexity about the towering question mark that was his future.

 

 

Yet next mornings do come and a sense of responsibility would naturally accompany every rising sun. Although Sicheng would rather have them remain in seclusion for a while longer, and by that he most certainly means that if he had been familiar with the ways of freezing time, he'd apply them without second thought. Three o'clock at night was the peace he sought after, the place he wanted to be and the only time of the day that he didn't feel like those enormous walls seemed to suffocate him somehow, because the larger the walls, the thiner the air. He tried to remind himself to breathe on a regular basis, since that wasn't that self-evident of a task, and when he fluttered his eyes open upon hearing the maid's habitual wake up call, he swore he was getting worse at it. Maybe he could allow himself to fake oblivion every now and again, but not today.

 

He glanced at the phone on his bedside table. The reminder notification read "Dad's Birthday".

 

A particular guardedness accompanied his footfalls down the stairs, his heart running riot in his chest when he spotted his father's guise at the breakfast table, almost completely shielded by the broad headlines of the newspaper and alongside Sicheng's two older brothers, who were eating in quiet. Sicheng was scared, and scared to be scared, terrified by his own restlessness which would habitually appear to be cancelled out by languidness, but it wasn't, and Sicheng was tremoring from within.

 

"Good morning," he mustered. His voice was too small. He gave himself away.

 

_Might as well carry through now._

 

Sicheng took seat at his usual spot at the table, next to his mother's. She seemed to be occupied in the kitchen, the versant smell of waffles filtering through the atmosphere. 

 

"Morning, Sicheng," the oldest of his brothers spared him a glance. Too civil to be natural.

 

Now Sicheng could officially assign a rank to the severity of the situation. His gaze settled upon his father, who had yet to put down his newspaper so Sicheng could make out the mien he was to brace himself for, because he was fragile, _so_ fragile, he didn't want to fend unprepared. If there was room to fend to begin with.

 

His mother came in, and with her, the maid, a plate of fresh waffles balanced on her forearm, a jug of milk in one hand, two smaller ones with toppings in the other. His mother helped her put them down on the table, before she nodded Sicheng's way and he finally felt his existence receiving some strange form of acknowledgement, and he felt utterly grateful.

 

Finally, his father put down the paper, and Sicheng didn't quite know what he expected to begin with; a grey undertone, the wonted crease between dark, contorted brows and a vacant vision that was strangely intimidating, even from the safe distance Sicheng liked to put between the two. His father inspected the new batch of waffles and hummed, utilizing his fork to shove some onto his plate. Once his mother was seated at the table and the maid out of the room, there was nothing but the devoid clank of cutlery against porcelain, the occasional shuffle when someone would raise the napkin to their mouth. The usual mornings. Accustomed trepidations. Foreign licentiousness.

 

Just then, Sicheng noted how he hadn't moved ever since he had settled in his chair. But there was no longer potential to, as tempting those waffles presented themselves, neatly stacked on two separate plates, topped off with a thin layer of powdered sugar and berries. His father raised voice, and his senses went on full alert, and he wouldn't dare, no, wouldn't gather the little bits of nerve it would take him to bring his hand forward from under the table, because it was sweaty, or cold, or both, and it may have shaken when his father put aside his napkin and spoke.

 

"As you're all hopefully very aware, today is special. Every year I like to use this occasion to make a few announcements and recount what had made this year one that I am grateful for."

 

His gaze wandered to Zheng, oldest of the three. 

 

"This year I can proudly call myself the father of the CEO of the most promising export company within Asian territory and I am delighted to announce that he, too, will be able to call himself father of a sprouting young man in near future," he raised his mug, the corners of his mouth still unwavering. "may he grow up to be as prosperous as you, my son."

 

And there it was again. The dead elephant in the room, the unapproachable, almost divine presence of excellence that re-established itself every day anew, once they were gathered at the table, seemingly mute and vacant of any false motives. It wasn't Zheng's fault. Nobody had a say in this system, the unvoiced ranking, the _hierarchy_ that no one ventured to question, because silence was rich and slip-ups deadly, words were to be used when there was some sort of benefit to garner and not one syllable that has left Sicheng's lips felt of enough significance to be heeded. Not within this system. Not when he was last in the food chain. He stared down at his plate.

 

"Yuanjun," his father continued, and Sicheng could note how his brother's position shifted in the seat opposite to his. He was ready for the praise. His time to shine. "you have been named after your great-grandfather for a reason. Your name carries a great burden, the burden of a rich history that reaches back into the early founding days of our almost ancient family dynasty. But as it turned out, all worry was misguided. You've completed your studies at university with flying colors this year and have already established yourself a secure position in the family business. I know that you are gifted with an eager spirit that will allow you to accomplish anything. Yuanjun, I am beyond proud."

 

Sicheng clenched the rough fabric of his khaki pants under the table. His vision didn't avert, didn't waver; he wasn't even certain if he was blinking, really, he merely listened, hardly breathed.

 

"And of course, I want to voice my heartfelt thanks to my beautiful wife who has always been my source of unconditional love and support. Your harbor my heart, Huian. The years I have you by my side will always be the brightest."

 

Brief and succinct; his mother had lived through years of iconic speeches, it wasn't much of a surprise. And yet she always managed to muster a warm smile, managed to look so fond despite her quivering hands, and if she didn't hold Sicheng's hand under the table at the rather frequent times that it occurred, Sicheng wouldn't exactly know. Although, she didn't in that moment. Maybe she was genuinely touched.

 

Silence. 

 

Almost _deafening_ silence.

 

Something told Sicheng he was supposed to look up, and yet, he wasn't aspiring to decease at such fledging age, wasn't courageous, or corrupted enough to voice a definite death wish.

 

Although.

 

He lifted his gaze.

 

The entire round, excluding his mother, had its full regard pinned to the burn hole in the picture, perusing, permeating. One marveled at how it managed to subsist without having been fixed, an undertaking so long overdue that it had been dismissed as the dust particles that continued to gather atop of the old clock every morning, no matter the endeavors of the maid, the frequency or the rigor of her polishing. It's an infesting presence one simply had to put up with, and this one just happened to be nice to look at.

 

Nice to look at.

 

That's what he was. 

 

That's _all_ he was.

 

"Sicheng, eat the waffles your mother made."

 

 

 

 

The day went by at a rather dragging pace, one punch following the other that the knots in Sicheng's stomach merely seemed to have tangled themselves with one another. Sicheng couldn't pinpoint what made his gut churn and twist the most; potentially that episode at the large scale dinner they hosted in the evening, when one of his father's affiliates asked what his sons had been up to and once Sicheng's name rolled past gritted ivories, just presenting itself so eager to be dragged, he responded with a chagrin-laced "He _says_ he's too ill to study", because just how evident could he make it that he wasn't going to degrade himself to make anyone assume he might be on his youngest's side. Sicheng was on his own. And obviously completely irrational.

 

So it sounded.

 

But Sicheng didn't budge, remained seated at the buoyant revelry, because the least he could do was _look nice_ and jubilant, and when he performed the traditional dance he had prepared for the occasion, he didn't even attempt to bide acclaim, not when he was so eager to make his exit after bowing to the audience that was beyond euphoric. It didn't wasn't of importance, really. He just didn't appear ill enough for a convincing stage.

 

There had also been the instant that his father had made the effort to assemble the three of his sons by the stairs to send each to bed individually, as to speak last words of tribute and what might've sounded like distantly related to endearment and praise if he hadn't cut himself off the moment Sicheng raised his pate to look at him, because _yes_ , he was very much present. Or so it seemed.

 

Sicheng rid himself of his tux and fell back into the soft burgundy sheets of his bed, exhaling what seemed to be trapped in his throat for the past sixteen hours or so. He wouldn't cry, he told himself.The sting would vanish eventually.

 

He got up again, hauling himself to the bathroom for a hot shower.

 

 

Regrettably, once he turned the handle and water started streaming down long, aching limbs, warm vapor shrouding his brittle joints, he felt himself give into the very last bewrayment for the day, namely his own. 

 

Though he might just pretend those sobs belonged to the drain water that gathered at his feet.

 

 

 

 

Whatever as yet unbeknownst hysteria it was that shook Sicheng out of his slumber at presumably ungodly hour, it was relentless, and it was severe. Sweat stained linen pressed uncomfortably at the shivering superficies of his tender skin, and his respiration lagged, reaching deadlock in his throat before he'd ploddingly push it out in riven pants. 

 

_No_ , he thought.

 

_Not tonight_.

 

Clipped whimpers mingled with his ragged breathing and he wanted out, _out_ , out of his bed, his room, this house, because the space around him seemed to taper off all of the sudden and he had a horror of being crushed alive, of feeling the pang of every single of his brittle bones being broken and shattered under the force. He wailed, and the whimpering grew to footless cries, because his legs; they wouldn't move. They'd just restlessly shift in place, enough to kick off the sheets with immense effort and beyond that all he could do was clutch at whatever was near, dig his digits into the mattress till they hurt just as to get a hold on something solid. 

 

Every particle of his system tensed up, a sizzling heat pooling at the forefront of his head.

 

Never had he been so positive about his death.

 

He was dying.

 

This time for sure.

 

This time he was certain.

 

This time it'd all come to halt.

 

It'd finally stop.

 

He wept.

 

 

"Master Sicheng!"

 

 

 

 

Sicheng briefly wakened to a soft murmur, barely audible. 

 

A voice. Gentle yet dejected, and muffled behind wooden barrier. Sicheng shifted in the foreign sheets; white sheets. 

 

Another voice sounded, lower in pitch, laced with force.

 

"We can't keep him here, he's being intolerable."

 

"He's your son, Guanyu. You can't just lock him away!"

 

_Mother._

 

"Enough people have been witness to this mess. He's soiling our name, Huian. Zheng's name, Yuanjun's name," he paused. "Do you not care about your children?"

 

There was a curt silence, curt, yet maddening enough to present the pestilent temptation to intervene, make himself apparent. But he lingered, beset with the mental image of his mother's spirit breaking under his father's sway. 

 

She whimpered, her words impossible to make out from his position. Sicheng choked something down.

 

"If there's something wrong with him, the doctors will figure it out. Just leave it to me."

 

_If there's something wrong with him_ , Sicheng mentally repeated his father's utterance, the sobriety echoing within the walls of his cranium in such dreadful manner, he shivered, weakly pulling the thin layer of fabric that was covering his body further up to his cheek, till it was covering his ear. He doubted it would mute anything. Not when the sound came from his very own head and the damage was already done.

 

The last thing he heard was footsteps, and then a soft noise, a wail maybe.

 

He thought about his mother. And instead of submitting to another wave of panic about what all of this would mean for him, where they'd take him, _what was wrong with him_ , he averted his thoughts to his mother, who was seemingly just meters away from where he was lying, bearing a burden she wasn't built to sustain to begin with. 

 

Too soft.

 

Too quiet.

 

Too _weak_.

 

And so he let himself drift into another restless slumber, in which he dreamt of broad grass fields, hearty, childlike cackling, a balmy bloom of summer, and his mother's gentle smiles.

 

 

_He's my son too._

 

 

 

 

Sicheng didn't like his new room. Well, as a matter of fact, he _particularly_ harbored a certain resentment towards the wall clock that hung above the only doorway out. It was one of those clicking, ticking ones, that always appear to be exceptionally noisy once all light was out and Sicheng had to concentrate on finding a peaceful shuteye for the night before he'd have to be faced with his greatest fear yet for the next day, agitated and unpremeditated, despite being given the time to spin out some mind blowing excuse that might plant base under these _preposterous events_ , as his father would label them. But Sicheng had been blank from the moment he stepped foot into the private hospital they had brought him to, or rather abandoned him at, and for starters he presumed it might've just been because everything within that place was practically _blank_. Devoid of color or redundant decorations, everything was kept in pristine tidiness and color scheme, almost as if someone had purposefully furnished this place to make it seem notably clinical and lifeless. Aside from that though, his father had made one hundred percent sure that none of his reputable business partners or the scandal sharp set public life would sift out his son's actual location, sending him far off home to the ever so familiar, yet likewise foreign South Korea, where they'd been plenty of times when Sicheng and his brothers were still young, and sprouting. However, times have changed and so have circumstances.

 

Not to mention that Sicheng hardly remembered a single word of Korean.

 

The nurses were nice though, even when Sicheng struggled to talk back, merely nodding his head in a meek manner whenever they'd ask him questions. He didn't want to be impolite. The _last_ thing he wanted to be was impolite.

 

And yet the language barrier made itself very much more apparent after his first night at the clinic, when one of the nurses notified him that he had been assigned a physician to evaluate his situation. Because while Sicheng didn't even have the faintest notion how to even voice any of those strange sensations in Chinese, he'd be a lot further from receiving any sort of help if he had to explain himself in Korean. Sicheng deflated. He would have to force himself to try anyway, because really, there weren't any options. Not when his father had made it plain that he'd demand answers by the very end of the day. 

 

This evaluation _mattered_.

 

Sicheng sat straight up in his bed when he heard a knock on the door to his room, calling out a broken _come in_ before the handle pushed down and someone stepped inside. His gaze remained pinned to his lap for the period it took the intruder to find a seat, his focus aimed at keeping the quiver of his hands at bay before he finally looked up; reasonably startled to find a rather youthful looking male seated at his bedside.

 

Youthful was one thing. But so achingly _beautiful._ Sicheng found himself at a loss of words as his lips fell slightly agape, eyes not-so-subtly studying the other's facial features with that habitual childlike glimpse. He was mesmerized.

 

And staring.

 

The man audibly cleared his throat, loud enough to startle Sicheng once more whereat he blinked in disconcerted manner, awkwardly shifting in his position before bashfully averting his regard back at his lap, dismayed at how he presumably just made a severely gut-wrenching dent. There was no returning now. The man pushed up the pair of round glasses that sat atop of his prominent nose bridge.

 

"Your name must be Dong Sicheng," he said, and Sicheng instantly lifted his gaze, marveled at the other's immaculate Chinese. "My name is Lee Taeyong. I am the consulting psychiatrist of this facility."

 

His voice was deep in pitch, yet not quite as low as Sicheng's own. Far more self-assured though, that for certain. Sicheng vaguely nodded his head.

 

"We'll just talk about how you're doing, how we're going to advance with your treatment and in the meantime, I'll try to evaluate what we're working with. During your stay here, it is my job to find effective ways to help enforce amendment with whatever it is that you're struggling with, and document the progress you're making; if any, that is." 

 

Sicheng swallowed at that, suddenly immensely intent on attempting to not visualize the consequences of the latter. 

 

"You tell me about any concerns that you're having and whether anything is making you uncomfortable," he set down the clipboard he was holding on Sicheng's nightstand and carefully leaned forward, as if trying not to invade the other's comfort zone. Little did he know Sicheng was already shockingly fond of the ring of the man's voice. "So, to start this off slowly; how are you feeling today?"

 

It took Sicheng a good ten seconds to wit that he was, in fact, being asked a question. A question he was actually supposed to be capable of answering; it wasn't in Korean after all. But he couldn't help but feel even more dumbfounded than typically, wild, hardly comprehensible gesticulations usually filling up the painfully awkward silence before his conversational partner would flash him an understanding smile and simply leave it at that, much to his relief at most terms. But that wouldn't do, not this time around, when the matter suddenly appeared very much real and he was sitting alongside a professional who was capable of handing down the dooming verdict. 

 

Why did that particular professional have to be so distractingly attractive anyway.

 

The man, Taeyong, gave him a reassuring smile.

 

"Take your time."

 

_I don't have time_ , Sicheng thought.

 

"I'm good."

 

It sounded weak, but he didn't stutter. It was a start.

  
"That's pleasant to hear. Now, Sicheng. Do you know why you're here?"

 

Sicheng fiddled with his fingers. He shook his head. Was that a lie? He didn't know for sure.

 

Taeyong sighed.

 

"Alright then .. why don't you tell me what happened before you got here? Your mother mentioned you were quite distraught."

 

"I don't know," he looked up. "I just panicked."

 

"Why did you panic?"

 

_I don't know_ , he wanted to answer anew, yet he reminded himself how that wouldn't help them move forward in the slightest.

 

"I'm not .. sure what I should be doing."

 

"Should be doing with what, Sicheng?"

 

Taeyong shifted closer with his chair. Sicheng felt oddly tranquillized; if not strikingly flustered.

 

"My life."

 

 

There it was again, when yet far afield from their breakfast table. The dead elephant, and with it, the zipping question marks that would orbit his every notion before he'd get the chance to even entertain the act of voicing them. His tongue was toxic and his mind befuddled, soiled and languorous beyond a point of utility, and he suddenly recalled his father's words. He lacked ambition. He lacked passion. He lacked a plan. The _right_ plan. A dooming reality Sicheng had contemplated more often than one would estimate sufferable, long, restless nights marking months in his calendar and taxing that virtual dam that was originally designated to keep all pressure at bay, when in reality it was making the mere act of _subsisting_ a lot more arduous by day. He had officially played himself. Whereby he really didn't register any of it as it was occurring. 

 

He had abruptly been overpowered.

 

What bitter irony.

 

Sicheng didn't note the unnatural stretch of silence, before Taeyong raised his voice anew, the younger caught off guard at how Taeyong had his regard intent on studying the boy's facies.

 

"It seems things have been building up for a long time. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong," he reached out for his clipboard and put it on his lap; shifting one leg atop the other so it was at an angle at which Sicheng couldn't make out what the other scribbled down on it.

 

Sicheng nodded. It felt foreign to voice any of it out. As if it was supposed to make the entire situation so much more severe by letting it roam the air in sound waves. It made it real.

 

And yet somehow he felt strangely alleviated; maybe treatment would help him after all. 

 

Or maybe talking to Taeyong would. The man would try for his trust, Sicheng didn't fail to notice. 

 

But he wasn't going to create another barrier, since lastly, he had enough of those.

 

 

And just like that it came that he decided to talk.

 

 

 

 

It came to no surprise that Taeyong was a marvelous listener. Sicheng didn't know whether it was part of his training to unfailingly respond with the very appropriate thing to literally every yet so wearisome detail that he'd entrust him with, but the man was without doubt patently skilled at what he was doing. There was barely a thing Sicheng didn't want to disclose. He told Taeyong about the house that he would annually frequent with his mother and siblings during the summers when they were little, about how those summers were the last weightless memories he'd recall ever so often as to remind himself that there was still hope of rekindling that astray zest for life. He'd tell him about the nights of strained pondering, anxious and in smarting apprehension of the questions he couldn't answer, the lies he'd have to force himself to contrive. He hated lying. _God,_ he was basically a child, still felt that burning sting whenever a false word made its way past his pretty lips and Taeyong seemed to be aware, even heaving a soft snicker when Sicheng spoke about the mornings at their summer residence, wide-eyed and voice just a pitch higher. And Taeyong's laugh, Taeyong's laugh was _beautiful_ and Sicheng hated how he made the impression of that naive, chaste, unwitting little child, whereas he wasn't even certain what impression he _did_ want to make. 

 

Either way, he genuinely didn't expect himself to have a fancy for psychiatric evaluations. 

 

Well, that was until Taeyong hit the more earnest note and told him first predictions.

 

Panic disorder. GAD; generalized anxiety disorder. Stress.

 

Sicheng wanted to curl up and die. The verdict was too underwhelming; so underwhelming, it was severe.

 

"You can't tell my father that."

 

"Sicheng, there's nothing wrong with–"

 

"No," he firmly cut him off, evidently blowing Taeyong out of the water. "You don't understand. My father wouldn't have that. Never."

 

"This is a health concern that affects one of his own. I doubt that he has any reason to be resentful."

 

Sicheng wouldn't trust his ears. Did Taeyong just dismiss everything he had priorly confided him with? 

 

He felt tears prickle in his eyes. 

 

Not now.

 

_Not now._

 

Sicheng clutched at the sheets. He _needed_ to be convincing.

 

"You don't ... understand ..."

 

"Sicheng."

 

"He'll ... he'll think I made it up ..."

 

"He can't say that if it's me telling him."

 

"He won't believe you."

 

"He will have to."

 

"That's not ... that's not how it works!"

 

Sicheng was shocked at the intensity of his words; they were loud, almost violent, laced with a bitter tinge of hurt and desperation and he froze, frantically attempting to strive against the now very much evident presence of seething wetness that blurred his vision, a feel of treachery ambushing his weakened spirit. 

 

He glanced at Taeyong through tearstained eyes.

 

His glimpse sat deep in his lap, expression stern and unwavering as he spoke.

 

"I have no choice."

 

 

And with that, he snatched at his clipboard and left the room.

  
Sicheng curled up under his blanket, the atmosphere suddenly as bleak as ever as the sound of muffled sobs unfurled homey vibes, along with the unnerving ticking of the wall clock.

 

 

 

 

 

Undoubtedly, his father seemed to be in a great rush when he practically tore the door to Sicheng's room open that very same evening, long demanding strides announcing his presence from far down the hallways of the rather small-sized clinic. Sicheng cowered, barely invested with the potency to defy what was to come. He was terrified. Anxious. There was literally no way his father would respond well to what was to come. His father barely bid him a greeting, promptly setting about urging a nurse to summon a superior to enlighten him about what it was to be, and his mother followed after, breathless from trying to catch up and greeting Sicheng with a gentle hand to his cheek, which she removed the very same instant, timidly scooting over to her husband's side. 

 

Sicheng's breath came to halt when Taeyong accompanied the three of them, suspending the stifling silence that had Sicheng praying for deflection, any kind, any form of deflection exempting the actual confrontation with the perilous topic of his very own sanity. He felt anything but sane when he briefly darted his vision to Taeyong, who appeared composed, when yet unsmiling, evidently unmoved by Sicheng's internal state of turmoil and Sicheng suddenly despised him, hated how he politely bid welcome to his parents and firmly held onto his clipboard, long, graceful digits curling around the edges and for a moment the boy was grateful for the distraction, being the momentary wave of loathing towards the face that had promised amelioration for those few finite hours of that oh so terrifying day. It was something to focus on. Even if just for that very moment.

 

"Needless to say, one day really isn't a time frame to draw any solid conclusions," Taeyong began, and Sicheng's insides contracted. "But since you insisted so strongly, I tried my best to evaluate your son's overall condition."

 

"I would be grateful if you could get straight to the point, I have a plane waiting for me."

 

_Of course he did._

 

Sicheng plead, plead with a god, whichever god would listen, plead to the skies, the angels, the ticking wall clock, the 8pm moon, the yellow leaves outside the window, the desolate lamp post down the street, the hollow clicking of heels from the hallway, the stuffy air, the subtle chill; he plead with Taeyong.

 

Sicheng didn't expect Taeyong to be looking at him when he glanced up, the younger's eyes desperate and woeful. The man's brows furled just the slightest when their gazes locked, his eyes filled with a certain intensity that Sicheng failed to discern initially and somehow turned out to have an impossible time bearing, because not hating him was difficult, yet despising him was all the more taxing, if not completely impossible.

 

Time froze, and Sicheng was begging. 

 

And despite the absence of words, Taeyong seemed to understand.

 

Because the next thing Sicheng knew, was that Taeyong frantically scribbled something on his clipboard before directing his regard back at Sicheng's father, quietly clearing his throat before he heaved what rang like a confident tonality.

 

"Of course, sir. You see, Sicheng is actually coming to terms with something. Possibly a traumatic event, that I have to ascertain, still," he paused to lick his lips, gently pushing up his glasses at once. "It seems he doesn't remember, or rather, his brain is trying to forget it. That's a very common side effect of traumatic experiences, it's what people within my circle call Dissociative Amnesia and you'd be surprised how often we deal with patients who struggle with it as consequence of a trauma. What that means for your son," his gaze fleetingly swayed to Sicheng's side, before it directed itself back at the other man. "Is that I will have to keep him under my supervision for a while longer. It's just for the best."

 

"Oh my god," Sicheng's mother gasped, a hand coming to cover her lips. "Will he be alright? What could possibly have happened to him?"

 

"Although making promises is pretty much akin to committing a crime in my business, I can confidently say that Sicheng's brain is capable of recovery. There is definitely a chance we'll be able to help him recall whatever distressing ... event could've triggered this odd behavior of his, if you would just allow me to keep him here so I can keep an eye on him and initiate a gradual treatment that'll help him with the reprocessing. Sicheng is a strong boy," he tucked the clipboard under his arm. "And by no means in control of what is happening to him." 

 

 

And yet again, time, for Sicheng, came to a halt. 

 

His ears did not fail him.

 

They _couldn't_ have.

 

Wide-eyed, he looked down at his lap. _Dissociative Amnesia? A traumatic event?_ Taeyong seemed so doubtless, so self-assured. 

 

_Could he have spoken the truth after all?_

 

_... No._

 

Taeyong lied. Taeyong lied for Sicheng. Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and didn't move a single muscle at it. Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and told his father that he was blameless. He was innocent. He was _free of guilt_. _Backed and verified by an experience, no, by a professional._ Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and made his father depart with nothing more than plain, wordless acknowledgement.

 

 

Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and Sicheng felt the air flood his lungs for the very first time.

 

 

 

 

Sicheng wanted to talk about it, but he was aware it would put Taeyong at risk. Therefore, he didn't. However, that didn't outlaw the act of talking to the older altogether, because if there were ways and tangible means for Sicheng to reciprocate and show his utmost gratitude, then he'd try his very hardest to work them; if possible, all at once, and at each and every free minute on Taeyong's schedule. Sicheng didn't know what Taeyong had told the nurses, what truth remained on the jottings of his clipboard, but Sicheng somehow reveled in the attention he was receiving; especially the servings from Taeyong's end. Their sessions started to draw out with each day, and every now and again Sicheng would indulge himself in calling on Taeyong's company when the elder was off duty and they'd pass away the time talking about why Sicheng loved the color orange so much, or about how Taeyong's glasses hardly took effect in making him look more sophisticated, as he intended them to. Sometimes, Taeyong would laugh. And Sicheng would just naturally feel himself tumble one year closer to infantility whenever the corners of Taeyong's lips would almost sheepishly curl upward, barely stashing the seamless row of ivories before he'd elicit the mellifluous chime of hearty laughter, so unadulterated, so _beautiful_ , and yet so so mature that it felt likewise unethical for Sicheng to dwell in a state of mesmerization whenever he'd pause to listen. Maybe Sicheng felt just a little too secure and comfortable in his position. Just _maybe_. 

 

And yet it was little more than evident that the older's laughters were laced with a very pungent hint of restraint.

 

Never would he disclose anything personal on his own accord, or be the one to call upon Sicheng's company first, unless it was for one of their sessions; and while it irritated Sicheng beyond any reasonable measure, it also made him dip those contingencies into a perilously addicting shade of profound mystery, and he wondered what kind of skeletons Taeyong hid in his closet, what demons he fought with, if they were his very own. He wondered what Taeyong feared, if he feared anything at all. Whether he grew up in a loving home, much like he deserved, being spoiled with affection and care. How well the older slept at night, or if his sleep was restless like his own. 

 

He wondered if Taeyong thought about him often. 

 

 

He simply couldn't do otherwise but fondly hope so, and with every passing day, the ice grew thinner.

 

 

 

"So how are we feeling today?"

 

"Are you not going to stop asking the same dumb question every time we start a session."

 

"I'm just thinking it might be good to stick to some habits at least," Taeyong smiled, pondering. 

 

"I'm fine. Well-rested, I think."

 

"That's good. I'm proud of you, Sicheng."

 

Sicheng's heart seized up uncontrollably. 

 

_All thanks to you._ "Thank you."

 

An odd silence fell upon the room as Taeyong sorted his papers, and Sicheng aspired to fill it.

 

"I was wondering," he started, casting lots between the countless things he wanted to know about Taeyong. "If you ever had a dog."

 

The question visibly caught Taeyong off guard, but he followed up by heaving a soft laugh, unceremoniously casting his notes aside on Sicheng's bed stand. "In fact, I did."

 

"What breed?"

 

"A Korean Jindo. His name was Nunsongi."

 

"Like snowflake!" Sicheng beamed.

 

"Yes, like snowflake." Taeyong returned the smile.

 

"But why the past tense?"

 

"Well," Taeyong tapped his pen against the superfice of his knee. "The inevitable happened. He died when I was young."

 

"You're still young."

 

_Stop, stop, stop, stop._

 

"Not really, no," Taeyong said, sounding almost strained all of a sudden.

 

Another silence emerged. Sicheng contemplated remaining adamant, but decided to drop the topic instead. 

 

"How did he die?"

 

Taeyong jerked slightly, as if torn out of thoughts. "Huh?"

 

"Nunsong."

 

"Nunsongi."

 

"Yes," Sicheng tilted his head to the side, intently studying the gradually forming furrow on the older's brow. Taeyong appeared to notice and promptly attempted to ease the tension on his mien. "How did he die?"

 

"Old age. We practically grew up together so it wasn't that much of a surprise when it happened," he briefly pressed his lips into a thin line before pushing up the frame of his glasses; a habit that he would conduct whenever he'd brace up for a more serious note. Sicheng was proud he had lastly managed to pick up on that. "Anyway, we should probably move on with the session. We need you to be strong enough to face your father after all."

 

"Did we say I would do that?"

  
"It's inevitable though, wouldn't you think so?" 

 

"I told you, I'm not–"

 

"Take the time you need, nobody is rushing you, alright?" the curve in his lips conveyed that habitual sense of security and Sicheng saw light, his toes curling just a tad bit in abashment. "Remember that. I'm here to help. Your comfort is my only wish and if there's anything I can do to make you feel just a little bit more comfortable in your own skin, I'll do it. 

 

But meanwhile try to keep in mind that you're not going to be able to stay here forever."

 

An importunate pang permeated Sicheng's chest at that, and it hurt, _hurt so bad_ , and for a moment he could clearly conceive of the towering walls that he had been so used to, far away from Taeyong, far from the safe place he had built, the one Taeyong has _provided him with_ , and he didn't want it to jostle him away again. He felt like a sulky child; he was convinced he'd never be ready enough for that to happen.

 

"I don't want to go back."

 

Not aware that he was mumbling aloud, Sicheng averted his vision to the side. 

 

Taeyong heaved a profound sigh and rose from his chair to stride over to the commode very few steps to his right, pouring himself a glass of water from the jug placed atop before he turned around to face the boy anew, lips compressing into a thin line once more before gently curving upward to a wee smile. A tender sensation.

 

"I'm sure your mother misses you, Sicheng. She's probably worrying herself sick thinking about you being here all by yourself."

 

Sicheng pondered. "But I'll miss you."

 

"Sicheng, don't." 

 

Somehow those words sounded nothing like Taeyong; they had transmuted into something distant, clinical, and it washed a shudder over Sicheng's limbs that was so unsuspectedly forceful, that the temperature of the air that dragged itself through Sicheng's lungs in balking shoves suddenly affected to be so much cooler and the younger looked up, seeking Taeyong's gaze, applying for his sympathy. However, Taeyong's eyes were somewhere else; and the glass he had poured himself knocked over there his hands had clutched onto the edge of the commode as he abruptly leaned back against it.

 

Regardless, he didn't move from spot. As if he hadn't noticed.

 

Sicheng blinked disconcertedly, his vision darting back and forth, from corner to corner, on the hunt for something that was invested with the means to fill the sudden massive lack of reassurance, and although Taeyong was right there, standing a mere foot off from where he was precariously hugging his knees on his bed, there was a wall, indiscernible yet still so frustratingly effective at blocking the outlook.

 

"T-Taeyong?"

 

He loathed himself for stuttering.

 

"Sorry, Sicheng," Taeyong spoke up after a beat, his smile finally having returned to his lips; or something closely resembling it. "I'm just a little out of it today."

 

"Can I help?" the younger asked, too innocently, too childishly, a tad too _anxiously_.

 

Taeyong's eyes flitted to Sicheng and finally halted to rest upon whose timid guise. The boy nurtured new hope.

 

"Yes," a soft laugh pushed itself past dainty couplets, and Sicheng forced himself to overlook a mild undertone of frustration.

 

 

"Help me get you healthy now, would you?"

 

 

 

 

Sicheng could probably have pinpointed a specific instant when it all turned around if he had tried to be more attentive instead of desperately clinging to Taeyong's every yet so minor gesture of affection, which became more scarce and short-lived as the days passed. Sicheng hated it. But more than anything, he hated that it affected him so much, and with that, his treatment. The day his mother called for a short report on his condition, he poisoned his tongue with lies anew, when yet this time, he wouldn't feel even a tinge of guilt burn at his conscience; too distracted, too sober from the lack of Taeyong to fill his days with adoring eyes and sheepish smiles, the anxious vein that brought him there in the first place being occupied with weighting all worry on the way he was perceived by one and only one individual.

 

_"I found a new song by that artist you liked!"_

 

_"Sicheng, I have a meeting in three minutes. Save such matters for our sessions, please."_

 

It burned. 

 

And so the walls grew larger.

 

More than often, Sicheng would find himself taking walks into the little courtyard at late hours, for one as to hang up on the stifling ticking of that damned wall clock, and as to try to contemplate and ascertain how to escape whatever matter had suddenly made him so blatantly unattractive to Taeyong; whether it was his general infantile ways or the many questions he'd ask out of sheer, undistorted curiosity. Whereas those seemed to be the things that had drawn Taeyong in to begin with. There was just something about the way Taeyong's eyes would so diligently scan every laughter line that curved into Sicheng's cheeks, how he'd brush away individual strands of that shaggy, ebony hair so they wouldn't dim the puerile gleam of whose wide hazel irises, fondly knock his palm against Sicheng's thigh when they'd sit in the courtyard together during lunch, reveling in the afternoon sun of early autumn, side by side on the small wooden bench by the centered well and maybe the fact that Sicheng had received a taste of the attention made its absence so much harder to bear. Maybe signifying _most definitely_.

 

Sicheng missed Taeyong. And it was all he could think about, all sensible notion he could muster when he heaved himself up to the edge of that very same well at nocturnal hour, firmly planting himself atop before he clung to the material of his sweater, hugging his frame to generate warmth in the chilly fall breeze. His legs were almost bare; lose sleeping shorts wrapping themselves around the boy's slightly tanned thighs as he gently rubbed them together.

 

Looking at the few windows that still shined light, he pondered. All this time and he hadn't really taken it upon himself to acquaint any other patients; if there were similar cases to him? Sicheng heaved a sigh.

 

"What are you doing out here."

 

Sicheng visibly jerked, rapidly bringing his hands down to the stony surface he was planted on to stop himself from slumping backwards.

 

"Taeyong?"

 

Sicheng's heart went on a riot. He could barely make out the familiar features in the frail lighting of a far off lamppost, but when he did, he was caught off guard by how unwontedly casual the older man looked; a lack of glasses, a white long-sleeve and ripped jeans, topped off with an unlit grit hanging loosely between tight couplets, a distant look seeking Sicheng's own once the younger had finished his look over. Part of Sicheng cowed. The other parts were dangerously intrigued by the out of the ordinary view.

 

"I asked what you're doing out here. It's late."

 

Despite the rather snapping tonality, Taeyong's voice was laced with a hint of softness; if not rather just really _really_ tired.

 

"I couldn't sleep," Sicheng mumbled timidly, averting his gaze when Taeyong suddenly advanced nearer. "What are you doing here? Didn't you go home?"

 

"Emergency call," he replied, lastly removing the grit from his lips, his full regard plastering itself onto the lustrous reflection in Sicheng's eyes. "What do you think might help you fall asleep?" 

 

And yet again, the tone caught Sicheng off hand as he instantly retracted his bare legs when Taeyong slouched dangerously close to him, the rough fabric of his jeans fleetingly brushing against the sensitive skin as the man gradually leaned forward, and Sicheng couldn't help but tilt his torso backwards as to escape the other's inordinately wolfish stare.

 

"I– I didn't know you smoke," he managed to mutter out, though it sounded as though it came out in weirdly tangled fractions.

 

"Why do you do that."

 

Sicheng blinked, startled, when Taeyong halted mere few inches away from the younger's frozen, wide-eyed facies. From the newly found proximity, it was possible for Sicheng to pick up on a faint smack of liquor in the other's breath, and although he could still feel himself being dominated by a hunch of unease, a strange sense of security came from the realization that Taeyong probably wasn't acting fully like himself; _or possibly even more so_. 

 

"Do what?"

 

"Is this a new act or do you usually play this dumb?" he slightly hung his pate to the side, a lazy smile suddenly stretching across his lips. "Or is this one _just_ for me?"

 

Sicheng could practically hear his own heartbeat thrumming boisterously in his ears, the sound almost drowning out Taeyong's next words. 

 

Just almost.

 

"What if I just took you here and now, would you still look at me with those wide, innocent eyes of yours?"

 

Sicheng's respiration faltered, _no_ , it came to a complete _shutdown_.

 

Taeyong was glowering at him, half-lidded, hungry-eyed and Sicheng shrunk and _shrunk_ and _shrunk_ and _shrunk_ when Taeyong's hand suddenly found itself on his naked thigh, venturing upward at an alarmingly rapid rate. 

 

"T-Taeyong," Sicheng pushed out in a feeble whimper, brittle fingers weakly curling themselves around the older's prying wrist. "What are you–"

 

"Shhh,"

 

A single of the digits from Taeyong's other hand came to rest upon Sicheng's plump lips, warm breath fanning over the plush superfice.

 

"This is going to help you relax. See it as part of your treatment, will you?"

 

That prior lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips once anew, and just when Sicheng was a little _too_ in awe, when yet a tad bit _awe-stricken_ , Taeyong seized the moment with his hand languidly enfolding the boy's length underneath the thin layer of texture, thumb carefully depressing against the sensitive tip. Sicheng gasped. Instinctively screwing his eyes shut within the very next instant, Sicheng took the material of Taeyong's shirt into a death grip, each and every inch of his body seizing up in yet unbeknownst ways, and his heart convulsed violently. And yet that was nothing compared to when the man's hand started _moving_ , long, sloppy strokes slightly tugging at his burning skin and despite all internal protest, he wanted, he _needed_ to heave out a moan which he instead reduced to an adrift whimper. Sicheng had never felt this small, this _fragile_ , and in spite of the ringing voice in his head that shook him, and told him to get away, he remained, because he didn't know just _how much_ he missed Taeyong's tender touch, and when the unoccupied of the older's hands tardily slid towards his cheek, thumb defyingly brushing over the surface of Sicheng's parted lips, Sicheng couldn't help but completely put himself at the other's mercy, leaning into the touch.

 

"This is what you wanted, huh. For some old pathetic fuck to touch you like this, no?"

 

_No_ , the voice in Sicheng's mind screamed. _Only you, only you, only you._

 

A finger teased the underside of Sicheng's cock, and Sicheng liquefied under the gentle brush of Taeyong's breath against the burn on his cheeks and he wanted to taste, taste the liquor on the other's tongue, the soiled words, the ecstasy, the ineradicable shatter of the thousands of boundaries they had surpassed, broken morals, sin, _sin_ , _sin_. But his lips remained remote from his own, and Taeyong quickened the pace of his strokes, firmly jerking the leaking length with astonishing, when yet painful precision before his lips found the shell of Sicheng's ear, whose eyes were still tightly screwed shut, incapable of bearing the sensory overload as he eased further into the groundless void of this drunkenness. It was _staggering_ , depriving the boy of all vim to even consider putting the other's actions to halt, because this was so _new_ , and his body was so _eager_ to be touched and held and tainted and Taeyong was giving and he hadn't been aware of just how much he wanted this.

 

"G-Gonna–"

 

"Go ahead."

 

The words came out in a breathy whisper, the pitch of it along with the sinful way Taeyong almost endearingly nipped at the line of Sicheng's slack jaw driving the boy to the absolute brim of his sanity; until the older abruptly divested Sicheng of all movement and the boy deflated, finding himself in an excruciating limbo.

 

The man's lips detached from his skin. "Open your eyes. Look at me when you come."

 

Sicheng's lids tardily flickered open.

 

The view of Taeyong looking at him, up closely and with a gaze so piercing, so intimate, it did _things_ to Sicheng's already edging nerves and he tried for a whine, but nothing came out. His eyes were lost in the profundity of the other's when Taeyong's hand started moving again, and really, couldn't lie; he had in fact figured an analogical image to himself, maybe even fantasized about Taeyong's touch, the rough pads of his fingers dragging themselves over the most morally reprehensible and sensitive patches of his skin, and his tongue; his tongue that was so off-limits which made it just the more worth desiring. The boy's body ached with desire and urge. 

 

 

Sicheng' moaned and his entire body _quivered_ when he finally came undone.

 

Breathing ragged and bereft of his innocence.

 

 

Remnants of intoxication bubbled in his gut and he panted, breaths violently pushing at his chest and making his entire torso heave with every torrent of the cool autumn breeze that would fill his lungs. And yet he felt warm; the older's presence emitting just the right amount of warmth to make him feel as if he hadn't just been jerked off in the midst of a courtyard, in the middle of the night. Sicheng allowed himself to dwell in a moment of bliss, an instant where he wouldn't recognize circumstance or abjection, rejection or the absolute impracticality of it all, because that very moment, Taeyong was there, holding him, sharing warmth and leaving traces of his fingertips on Sicheng's oversensitive skin and there was absolutely no place safer than this one, right by the older's side.

 

Little did Sicheng know, he was lucky enough the elder had let him get off his high before stripping him of that dearly beloved safe place he had put his mind into, his touch deserting the indigent body of the smaller a lifetime too early for Sicheng's liking. When Sicheng looked up, Taeyong's head was hanging low; he had taken a step back, arms resting by his sides, unmoving, and suddenly the bliss morphed into something so alarmingly familiar, Sicheng wanted to scream. 

 

Guilt. 

 

_Shame._

 

And without as much as a final remark, Taeyong turned around and left, gut-wrenching silence draping the boy's mind in a bitingly cold solitude.

 

 

 

 

"Dr. Lee is sick today, so your treatment will have to be discontinued until he feels better."

 

Sicheng's insides twisted painfully. Not like he wasn't expecting that at least _a little bit_. And yet hearing the actual statement roll off the nurse's tongue in a broken, yet intelligible Chinese was all the more excruciating, because _oh_. _So it did, in fact, happen._

 

Maybe some twisted part of Sicheng's mind had painted those few minutes of utter rapture, blissfulness of yet uncharted waters that splayed across the vast amplitudes of the ocean that was Sicheng's imagination and maybe, _maybe_ , he could've forgiven himself for entertaining those filthy desires if only they didn't surpass the confines of his head. But no, it was very real. The faint violets on his jaw were. The slight cold he caught himself was. And the memory of Taeyong's face, close up, his fingers touching _there_ , all too vivid to convince himself he had been dreaming maybe. It dawned on Sicheng; Taeyong hadn't kissed him. And with that last drop of self-pity and self-loathing he could persuade himself to strongly believe that he was, in fact, still undesirable and very much alone. 

 

But after a day or two of drowning in the miserable state of his existence, Sicheng let his gaze wander to the wall clock above the door.

 

And he resolved, maybe it was time to venture on uncharted territory.

 

 

Surprisingly enough, it was easy to find someone to talk to. Someone other than _Taeyong_ , for that matter. Just a few rooms down the hall, resided a boy by the name of Yuta, and as it turned out, an immense amount of situational similarities linked the two cases and Sicheng was euphoric when Yuta had invited him to hang out in his room the next afternoon. Surely, the language barrier was devastating at some instant, especially considering Yuta was actually from Japan and very resemblant to Sicheng's case, trapped in here as to hide his paranoia from the hungry eyes of the public media. That alone, made Sicheng feel a connection to the boy, and the two instantly engaged in a jumbled, when yet light-hearted conversation which (as Sicheng wished to assume) gladdened the other just as much as it did him, because whose smile was so bright, so incredibly wide and _contagious_ , it simply didn't need any form of translation to convey the message. Nonetheless, Sicheng's heart ached. The pang growing as soon as he stepped back into the confines of his own room and the walls were towering, making the space seem all the more hollow and cooping without the certitude that Taeyong would eventually come back and tell him _it would be fine, it would be ok, he wasn't to blame, wasn't to blame for feeling what he felt, desiring what he desired with every living fiber of his body_. But Taeyong wouldn't be there to moderate the clinical vibe, and so Sicheng was left to fend for himself and fill the hole that the older had rifted into his ribcage, making the air so much harder to properly filter through his lungs.

 

Sicheng didn't want to use Yuta. But he didn't feel like giving himself the choice; to say nothing of what great company Yuta turned out to be.

 

When Sicheng knocked on the door to the older boy's premises, little did he expect to be pulled into an amicable hug once it swung open, the Japanese's shining ivories on full display.

 

"Siching!"

 

"It's Sicheng actually–" the other corrected, just to be cut off by a sudden pull at his wrist as to drag his frozen limbs past the doorstep and into the room. The layout was almost the same as the one of Sicheng's own; if not an exact replica, apart from a few photographs here and there, flowers, a _much_ comfier looking chair and a neat row of colorful miniature action figures decorating the surface area of the very same commode that fitted out Sicheng's room. It looked almost homey.

 

"For how long have you been here?"

 

Yuta's eyebrows perked up at that.

 

_Oh right._

 

Sicheng formulated the question anew; this time piecing together the bits of Korean he knew to make out something that was close to the meaning of the prior. Yuta shrugged his shoulders.

 

"I think I lost track of time. Gets harder to count the days the longer you stay."

 

Understanding about half of that, Sicheng nodded sympathetically. The vibe that Yuta gave off was so different from Taeyong's; he felt on the same level, could empathize, in a far more effortless way. He didn't have a hard time trying to get his head around what Yuta meant – apart from the language barrier – and while it was different from what Sicheng was used to, he welcomed the brisk, informal atmosphere that came so naturally with the other around. 

 

Although, admittedly anything that helped him escape the isolated stuffiness that was his room was a welcome change. If he had to be quite frank.

 

"I was really surprised when you approached me, actually," Sicheng flinched slightly when the other tore him out of thought by raising his voice. "I've seen you around for quite some time and yet the only person I see you with is the doc."

 

Yuta flopped down on his own bed and rolled to the side as to support his head with his elbow whilst keeping his eyes on Sicheng who suddenly felt at a complete loss of words; he damned the odd hue that was fanning out over the expanse of his cheeks as he tried to appear unaware, mustering the Japanese with perked up brows and confounded vision. Yuta's eyes widened.

 

" _Holy._ Don't tell me you have the hots for your shrink!"

 

Completely caught off guard by the other's forwardness, Sicheng choked on his breath, all senses in property of behaving and registering the newly given circumstance on immediate full alert.

 

"W– No!" Sicheng tried to wipe the alarmed expression off his visage, albeit without luck. "I don't have– _that!_ "

 

An amused grin stretched across the expanse of the other's lips.

 

"Acceptance is the first step to recovery, my friend."  


That Sicheng didn't understand entirely; whereby it didn't stop him from clawing back, never mind that the crack in his voice and his unyielding stance had already given him away for good. "It's not like this! He has given me support from first day, I'm just thankful!" he countered, shooting a defensive glare in the direction of the Japanese boy who was just _way_ too amused for Sicheng's liking. "I just don't have anyone but him."

 

"See, that's why you should do it like me," the smug expression on Yuta's facies didn't falter as he averted his gaze from the flustered Chinese. "Don't get attached to people who are simply doing their job. I know I'm here because I'm nuts, and it's my psychiatrist's responsibility to fix that loose wire in my head. No surpassing that professional relationship. Although, speaking in all honesty, just like, from me to you," his eyes flitted to pin themselves back onto Sicheng, the glint in their reflection bearing a mischievous undercurrent. "Dr. Lee is a straight ten out of ten. No wonder that you're whipped."

 

The crimson that tinted the younger's cheeks intensified and spread towards his ears, his glimpse no longer capable of bearing to look at the other boy. He knew he was being obvious. But that someone who was basically a stranger to him managed to sift out what he hadn't even gotten himself to admit in a matter of mere seconds was alarming to Sicheng, a massive knot tying his throat shut so he couldn't even rush back to answer for his stance.

 

He figured he might be beyond a point of desperate reasoning.

 

"He's very kind with me," Sicheng fiddled with the hem of his long-sleeve. "I mean, he was."

 

"Dude," 

 

"Hm?"

 

"Wouldn't it be weird if he got too nice with you anyway?"

 

Sicheng didn't understand. He tilted his head slightly to the side and Yuta sat up.

 

"I mean, wouldn't his colleges start asking questions if the pretty one with the obvious heart eyes got all the special treatment? That's just my guess." 

 

As the notion started to dwell on Sicheng, Yuta availed the beat to elaborate.

 

"It was already kinda weird to me how close you guys seemed just after a mere week of your arrival. The man's got a reputation to guard after all, god forbid someone finds out he's been screwing someone who he's pledged to protect this entire time. The consequences would be," he wiggled his eyebrows. "Drastic."

 

Sicheng pushed out an indignant huff. "We're not–!"

 

"Pshh, I know." Yuta exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, the expression that settled on his facies subsequently being an outright mystery to Sicheng. "I'm just saying that's what he might be trying to avoid. I mean look at you, you're basically bite-sized."

 

"Bite ... sized ...?"

 

"Look, it'd make so much sense!" 

 

Now Yuta seemed downright passionate about the matter, and Sicheng realized that the was still stiffly standing midst the room as all the events of the past month or so started to unveil at baffling velocity, much too rapidly for his own liking before he could bring himself to hinder the other from theorizing any further. 

 

"Yuta, let's just–"

 

"Hey, be honest with me," he paused till Sicheng's glimpse came upon the inquisitive, whereas scheming look he eyed him with. "Would you let him screw you?"

 

Sicheng would've gasped if he hadn't already undergone those past minutes of intense scrutinization of those darkest nooks of mind he had vainly been attempting to disguise. Instead, he muttered out an almost incoherent "I–I don't know, I mean I," as he shifted from one foot to the other, gaze beseeching mercy, or aiming at the exit, rather. The last thing he needed to revisualize that very instant was _Taeyong_ , in the _courtyard_ , and his _hands_ , ...

 

"...oh my god, you totally would!"

 

"Shut up!"

 

" _Oh my god!_ "

 

Sicheng internally cursed, infuriated at how transparent and defenseless he felt under Yuta's unrelenting interrogation. Worse still for the Chinese, Yuta was _immensely_ entertained by the other's distress. Sicheng genuinely relished Yuta's company. But his own vulnerability made him want to vanish off the face of the earth.

 

"That's so scandalous! _Scandalous_ I say!" he rolled on his back, broad smile on full display.

 

"Yuta, stop!"

 

"We need to do something about this. _You_ need to do something about this."

 

Abruptly, the older leapt off his bed, both arms ascending to rest upon Sicheng's shoulders which had tensed up severely in course of their conversation, his mien seized by something that screamed unwavering conviction as he raised voice with an undoubtedly hectoring, firm tonality.

 

"I, Nakamoto Yuta, am going to help you, Dong Sicheng, hook yourself Dr. _Too-good-looking-for-that-goddamn-ugly-ass-job_ with only the help of your natural when yet questionable charms and just a tinge of classic Nakamoto naughty," he paused for dramatic effect. "And if it's the last thing I do."

 

"Dr. ... _what_?"

 

Maybe venturing on new territory wasn't such a brilliant idea after all.

 

 

Either that or it was _just_ what he needed.

 

 

 

 

It was a Tuesday morning that Dr. Too-good-looking-for-that-goddamn-ugly-ass-job returned to work. Sicheng marked the day in his journal the very second he heard that low-pitched, languorous voice resonate through the uncharacteristically busy hallway, quickly taking note of how Taeyong's presence carried a spirited vibe into the grayness of the place, something that just seemed to come naturally with some people; including Yuta as he lastly resolved. Besides that, Yuta had this incredible gift of pushing people out of their comfort zone, out of that shy, rueful stance that Sicheng had always sported by default, whether he was actually fond of his reticence or not. But Yuta's sudden entering into his life was certainly a blessing; whereas Sicheng didn't know if he'd actually be able to carry through with any of the things he learned from the older, by far more experienced boy. Most of the time, Sicheng simply tried to laugh off some of the Japanese's lunatic suggestions instead of purporting that he'd be poised to implement such daring notion; he was still bashful as ever, deep down, still counting sheep as to find a peaceful shuteye and clutching a stuffed animal for comfort. 

 

No, Sicheng wasn't a nympho, which Yuta had so proudly showcased himself as. Sicheng was simply ... _fond_. And maybe a little bit desperate for _more_. Whatever that phrase entailed. 

 

Whether it was learning the man's minutest tics and morning habits, or memorizing that burning touch of his.

 

 

While Sicheng attempted to brace himself for whichever demeanor Taeyong could possibly counter him with (some of those including Taeyong bluntly bad-mouthing him, although Sicheng was fully aware he was far from the type to do that), he didn't register the faint noise of a curt knock against his door. The second time it sounded, Sicheng jerked visibly, soft voice barely heaving to call out and grant entrance. 

 

"Good morning, Sicheng."

 

Sicheng briefly bit his bottom lip.

 

"Good morning, Dr. Lee."

 

A smile curled at the corners of the man's lips; too commonplace, along with the exceptionally nonchalant way he took seat and skimmed his notes as if not a day had passed, as if nights didn't exist and Sicheng wasn't so conspicuously submissive that it hurt. Sicheng sat up a tad bit further. He won't have that. Yuta had accepted that promise.

 

"Where were you?"

 

"Just feeling a little under the weather," he raised his regard to flash the boy another smile. "A mild cold. Not enough to tie me to the bed, yet apparently enough to endanger an entire facility." 

 

He chuckled at that. Sicheng struggled with feeling slightly wounded.

 

"So how have you been feeling lately?"

 

_Hurt. Pathetic. Abandoned._

 

"I met another patient. We get along very well." Sicheng watched Taeyong's mien closely, anticipating to draw the merest shift in expression out of the older. 

 

"That's great, Sicheng. I'm glad to hear you've been socializing during my absence!" Taeyong sounded encouraging. "That's definitely a step forward."

 

Sicheng's head fell low for a moment as he sucked in a deep breath. Either Taeyong pretended not to notice or he remained oblivious before he settled the clipboard on his lap, about to commence with the session when the boy finally gathered his words.

 

"Hyung, do you hate me?"

 

Taeyong froze.

 

Not only was Sicheng looking at him with wide, sorrowful eyes, eyelashes fluttering in such delicate manner and lips curled into a subtle and yet so _outrageously_ endearing pout, but the boy's words, uttered with such brittle and soft chime, as if he was to break from the tensity in Taeyong's guise alone, were spoken in none other than the man's own mother tongue, Korean. It certainly wasn't flawless, but the slight stutter and minor imperfections in those few phrases merely added to the devastating air and Taeyong felt his disguise crumbling at such alarming velocity, he forcefully clawed at his clipboard.

 

"W-What would make you think that, Sicheng?" he finally responded in Chinese, attempting to muster a smile which ended up looking anything but natural there he instantly averted his gaze, dreading what might transpire if he was to keep his regard on the younger. 

 

Which merely resulted in him missing how Sicheng tacitly shuffled nearer, legs now dangling over the edge of the mattress and hands by his sides, torso leaning forward the slightest as he eyed the older with the same adrift mien. 

 

"I've been trying to figure out what I did wrong to make hyung be so cold to me ..."

 

Korean again. Sicheng instantly caught an evident unwieldiness draping the older's bearing. 

 

"You," Taeyong struggled to come upon the right words. "You did nothing wrong."

 

Taeyong visibly startled when Sicheng's leg came to brush against his own, his vision darting upward in a flash as to ascertain the flurrying proximity, not to mention the boyish manner in which Sicheng lingered on his bed, innocently swaying one of his legs back and forth as the other was propped to support his head. It was tilted sideways, just slightly, and his glimpse was quizzical, enchanting at that, and it left Taeyong speechless for an instant longer than he could afford in his situation. The boy was a threat. Had always been.

 

He had to get out.

 

"Hyung isn't feeling so well."

 

Taeyong lifted himself up from his chair, ready to make another abrupt exit before Sicheng's flimsy, lamenting tonality rung in his ears anew and he found himself halting in his tracks.

 

"I don't want _hyung_ to feel bad because of me," he sniffled, burying his facies in the comfort of his folded arms which were resting atop his newly joined knees. "I want to be good for him. I want to make him feel good like he makes me feel good. I want to–"

 

_"Stop it!"_

 

Sicheng was slow off the mark to discern that he was being pulled up by the collar of his oversized shirt, hands instantly reaching to grasp at the taller's wrist as he pushed out a surprised whimper.

 

He certainly had pushed some buttons; but were they the right ones? Because Taeyong's eyes were gleaming with something rogue, something frightening, something so _feral_ , that for a moment, Sicheng found himself back at home, all those weeks of attempted healing, vanished without a trace and leaving behind an infringing tinge of forlornness that made the man's grip seem all the more crushing, and Sicheng felt like suffocating, that so-called safe place spalling across the last of his defenses.

 

But no.

 

He was stronger than that.

 

With a voice, barely above a whisper, Sicheng cried out. "H-Hyung .."

 

"What do you want," he growled, in his mother language, at last.

 

Sicheng swallowed. 

 

"I want to be yours."

 

The man's features softened ever so slightly, whereas his grip remained tight. 

 

"And why would that be."

 

"You make me feel normal."

 

Sicheng's eyes pleaded and Taeyong paused, taking in the entire context of those words which somehow weighted so heavy on his shoulders. Finally, he spoke up.

 

"As your psychiatrist I probably shouldn't say this," his hold on Sicheng's shirt almost completely loosened, and Sicheng forgot to catch his breath, too diverted by attempting to decipher the expression that played on the older's features. "But nothing about you is normal."

 

Sicheng was on the point of accepting that he had just been severely wounded, when suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, an innominate sensation percolated within the depths of his gut and his lips found themselves captured in a firm lip lock, his system suddenly short on oxygen as he tried to process what, how, when, _why_. It was like the switch he had so desperately been trying to find had finally been turned, and yet he was overwhelmed, losing himself in the boundless ground of the moment as if he was on rapid free fall when Taeyong's hand flitted from his collar to the side of his neck, the large hand cupping part of the boy's defined cheek. He perceived a low rumble, something he didn't fully register to be real words before the man's lips detached from his own few beats later.

 

"Open your mouth."

 

Sicheng shuddered.

 

Obediently, the boy's lips parted the next moment Taeyong's found them anew, and he acutely recognized the intensity of his very own heartbeat in every fiber of his quivering body, incapable of making even the smallest movement apart from the gentle press of his lips as he tried to respond to the kiss, barely making impact whereas Taeyong was laying claim on all dominance. Taeyong's tongue found way into his mouth, and Sicheng knew he was way too far gone to maintain the lead in this situation. Sicheng felt exposed in the way the older man's wet muscle explored his insides; as if he was mapping them, claiming every yet so minor sweet drop of youth and patch of skin as his own, and Sicheng loved it, the feel of being taken, being _claimed_.

 

He breathed out a weak moan, and Taeyong was inexorable.

 

When they parted, Taeyong took a step back and without further ado, seized the thin fabric of Sicheng's shirt and neatly tore it in half with one swift, yet firm motion. Sicheng felt so immensely flustered, fragile, small, indescribably _excited_ at the older's bluntness; it was new territory. Never had Sicheng had the sense that he might be desired. And yet Taeyong's eyes were roaming his exposed torso in such ravenous manner, barely concealing the way he sucked in a sharp breath, tempering unholy cogitation. 

 

_A threat._

 

"You want to make hyung feel good?"

 

Sicheng nodded at that; a little bit _too_ eagerly one may hasten to add, before the younger felt himself being tugged downwards, soft knees hitting the cold, pitiless flooring.

 

"Then be a good boy for me."

 

At one swift haul, the man's boxers were pulled down just enough for the remarkable length to spring free. Sicheng was oblivious of how his own tongue glided over the superficies of his plush bottom lip and his glimpse darted up to the other's visage.

 

He'd be good.

 

No, he'd be _the best_.

 

A timid hand raised to wrap itself around the shaft before he leaned forward, bashfully poking the tip of his tongue past the seal of his lips to plant a delicate, almost kittenish lick along the underside of the tip, the evident twitch in his palm spurring him to firmly press the whole expanse of the hot muscle against it before his lips completely enveloped the tip. Yuta had somewhat prepared him for this, disclosed the disturbing and sloppy details of the "Art of Giving Head" to Sicheng despite primary protests; needless to say he considered himself more than thankful at this point. Sicheng startled when fingers threaded through his hair and Taeyong _pushed forward_ , the length sinking to the back of the younger's throat and Sicheng had to suppress a gag, vainly, as tears start to prickle in the nooks of his eyes, a helpless glimpse coming to rest upon the man's facies which was quintessentially predatory.

 

Sicheng whined. 

 

Nothing came out.

 

The unoccupied of Taeyong's hands gently wiped at the boy's cheek, catching an individual bead running down its side in a fond gesture before he gave him an encouraging smile, far too mellow looking for the given circumstance. But for all that enough to endow Sicheng's spirit with new wings.

 

Sicheng tried his hardest to keep his regard on Taeyong as the older started pounding into his tiny mouth, vision blurry, the view nevertheless worth the struggle. Taeyong's face exclaimed pure bliss, eyebrows contracting every time he hit the rear of his patient's throat, and Sicheng was just so _goddamn_ eager, continuously commencing further attempts to ramp up indulgence in his floundering form by enthusiastically fielding his tongue whenever provided an opportunity. Grip remaining tight on Sicheng's locks, Taeyong forcefully pulled the boy on and off his member, fucking into him relentlessly till the tears downright poured down the seamless canvas of skin, Sicheng desperately clawing at the man's thighs to steady himself as the repeated sound of gagging feebly resounded within the walls of Sicheng's hospital room.

 

Eventually, Sicheng felt the clutch on his hair seize and he readied himself to the best of his ability, inhaling deeply before Taeyong released his load with only his tip engulfed in the wet heat of the younger's mouth, loose lips keeping the shaft in place till the last of the warm, sticky substance oozed onto the tip of his abused tongue. 

 

Taeyong thumbed at the smaller's cheeks. The boy looked like a mess. A fair and beautiful mess. Fondly, he patted the soft locks before those wide eyes darted up to look at him, watery but so profoundly affectionate, it made Taeyong's heart ache. A mixture of spit and semen dribbled down the dainty chin and Taeyong reached to wipe at it, the soiled thumb pressing past plush couplets so Sicheng could savor the very last drop of the older man. 

 

 

"You're hyung's now."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taeyong has to decide whether he wants to seal his deal with damnation or turn around and leave before damage can be done. Turns out he has to make up his mind earlier than expected.

The oldest of Sicheng's brothers had chosen a late twilight for his unheralded visiting, and Sicheng wasn't sure whether he was entitled to feel everything apart from grateful, despite the very much apparent fact that he'd never dare arise suspicion regarding the matter in the first place. And yet, Sicheng struggled to imitate a smile when Zheng invited himself into his premises, much like his father, without as much as a knock prior. 

 

"Sicheng, my little bro!"

 

His mesomorphic frame was shrouded in a long, monochrome coat, smile brilliant and fair, in stark contrast to weary eyes that he had been sporting all year. Subtract the smile and append a few wrinkles, and one might've labeled him an exact replication of their father. Sicheng shuddered at the notion. Taking seat at the edge of Sicheng's bed, Zheng let his gaze roam over the wan ambiance before it settled on the younger's guise, canvassing vision seeking stir in those dim, nevertheless coruscating eyes. 

 

"How is treatment progressing? Are they being nice to you, little one?" 

 

"I told you to stop calling me that," Sicheng countered with a mild smile, and his brother casted out a low chuckle. "I'm doing ... alright?"

 

"How come you sound so unconvinced?"

 

"I'm not unconvinced," he hasted to reply.

 

One corner of Zheng's lips curled upward at that, and Sicheng pushed out a soft, indignant huff, before he reminded himself to promptly return to a more demure stance, heaving out a tame tonality. 

 

"I've been doing really well. I feel like taking me here was a good choice." 

 

He worried on his bottom lip. Zheng nodded his head, musingly.

 

"Mom told us about the traumatic experience thing," his gaze remained fastened to Sicheng's, who quickly averted. "It must've been hard for you, living with this, without being able to tell anyone." The younger failed to discern how a gentle palm settled on his covered thigh. Zheng sighed. "I just want you to know that I'm here now. And I won't leave any time soon. I promise."

 

Sicheng's glimpse lifted to be met with an apologetic mien.

 

"Zheng,"

 

"No, Sicheng. I'm sorry I wasn't there. As your big brother it's my responsibility to take care of you and guide you, but I've lost my sense for what's really important. Which is you."

 

"Don't ... don't you have a family to take care of?"

 

Yet again, Zheng returned with a pony smile.

 

"You're family too, dummy." 

 

His hand knocked against Sicheng's thigh, and the latter jerked, all of the sudden conscious of the fact it's been placed there. His pulse wavered strangely, and he looked back at Zheng, who either pretended to not having taken note, or was simply oblivious to the boy's sudden state of unease.

 

"I suppose," he reverted to biting his bottom lip, attempting to cast off a foreign hunch.

 

"I'm telling you, mom can't wait to have you back home so she can tell everyone how brave you've been."

 

Brows perking up in infantine manner, Sicheng's eyes widened with wonderment. "Brave?"

 

Zheng nodded solemnly. 

 

"Don't you know? You're her precious gem. Our family's most _valuable_ possession. How could she not be excited?"

 

Sicheng couldn't help but bow his head, smiling to himself at the notion of his mother awaiting his return. In the past week he hadn't even gotten round to ring her as frequently, considering his sessions had started to string out again and he simply couldn't abide the lies, couldn't mire that speckless tongue of his. At least not before her very eyes. However, out of all the things he had left behind at that place which scarcely bid charity, his mother had been the only he had regretted the absence of, nightly trains of thought redeploying him into terms of warmth and tendresse, soft hands and mellow chimes, radiant images. Before tomorrows mattered.

 

"We all miss you very dearly, Sicheng, ..."

 

_Even Father?_

 

The boy wondered, still absorbed in thought. 

 

"... I miss you."

 

His ears perked at that, vision whipping upward within the stretch of an instant.

 

 

The air was ... _disconcerting_. 

 

There was something so profoundly illegible about the older's mien that threw Sicheng off, his gaze tracing the point where his brother's regard seemed to have zoned into.

 

His eyes landed on his thigh, where the other's palm hadn't stirred from its position.

 

The echoes in his mind cried havoc.

 

 

A beat of silence.

 

 

"Anyway," his brother finally heaved out, and Sicheng unwittingly let out a tremendous waft of air he didn't know he had been holding. "I meant to tell you that I'll be in the country for a while. Business matters."

 

That curve, benign albeit blatantly distant returned to his lips and Sicheng didn't venture to look away when he felt the older's thumb massage gentle circles into his skin.

 

_This wasn't weird. This wasn't weird. This wasn't weird._

 

"W-What about your wife is she–"

 

"Ah, Chunhua," he heaved an abstracted sigh and Sicheng was so _immensely_ intent on trying not to pin too much meaning behind it, terrified of the vibes that accompanied the frenzied queries in his head. "I'm afraid pregnancy doesn't agree with her temper." he chuckled. "But still," 

 

At seemingly boundless last, he rose from his seat and made for the door in an ungirt, laggard stride and once faced with it, his regard remigrated to Sicheng's hopefully imperceptibly overawed guise with vacant countenance.

 

"A man's got to do what a man has got to do, doesn't he, little bro?"

 

He flashed one last of those brilliant smiles.

 

"Take care, little one. I'll be back soon."

 

 

Just why did Sicheng wish to cram eternities into a phrase so curt, and minuscule; as _soon_.

 

 

 

 

"Sicheng."

 

In reply, a soft murmur drew past the boy's lips.

 

" _Sicheng_."

 

Then, an infirm groan.

 

Something shook him awake and the Chinese's long-lashed lids tardily fluttered open, against all remonstration on behalf of his fatigued shape. In dense darkness he beheld a guise; so sinister whereas mystical, so intimate whereas so bitterly foreign. The further Sicheng's eyes adjusted to the gloom, the clearer he descried something so very ominous about the man's gaze, and yet Sicheng didn't perceive the minutest tang of fear, didn't budge, didn't shift away. He merely goggled the other with tender eyes before leaning upward, planting a chaste kiss onto those outlawed lips.

 

"You had a visitor."

 

His voice weighted gravely.

 

"My brother said he'd stay in Korea for a while."

 

Silence fell upon them. Taeyong appeared to ponder.

 

"I thought you two aren't this close."

 

Sicheng didn't know if he could allow himself to light upon a jealous vein tinging those words, notwithstanding that the notion of such actuality stirred riant commotions within the puniest corners of his narrow frame, and the lack of illumination effectively concealed the faint wisp of a reddish hue that bloomed on the apples of his cheeks.

 

"We aren't ... anymore."

 

The boy's pate shifted in his pillow, regard tramping off to another dimension of wildly straying ideas and daunting potential for another trip down memory lane. However, at the perfect nick of time before his mind brought off chasing thoughts that reached to this present day, Sicheng perceived a soft waft of air tickling the shell of his ear and his heart convulsed violently in his chest when the other presence heaved something barely above a low-pitched whisper.

 

"Just remember who you belong to."

 

A mere bystander of the subsequent deeds, he felt a cunning hand swiftly making its way underneath the thin material of his sleeping garment, rough palms running over and caressing the expanse of smooth skin, palpating his ribs, the taut muscles of his stomach which he had acquired from the years of extensive practice in the art of Chinese dance, his chest. The man brushed a thumb over one of his patient's sensitive nipples in a defying gesture, and the younger breathed out a fragile moan. 

 

Sicheng was so small underneath the touch and Taeyong was so awfully sensible of the fact that he adored it. That he adored Sicheng, adored him in ways that were objectionable beyond any calculable measure, so _acutely_ , he was deadly resolute he was to end up in hell eventually. But as long as the younger was lying there, the beautiful bone structure illuminated by nothing but the faint gleam of the moonlight that faintly filtered through the panes, lips parted, lean frame writhing with short strokes bliss, and eyes, those eyes whose reflection bore nothing but sheer and utmost adoration when they looked up at Taeyong as if he was the actual sun; as long as he could steal away those bits of heaven which had somehow been put into his ignoble palms by some ill-natured, divine force, he'd indulge in this limbo between heaven and sin. A place where Sicheng's slender arms would wind around his neck to pull him close and dip his conscience into a deeper shade of immorality. 

 

Taeyong capitulated to the unspoken laws of nature and Sicheng came apart. 

 

A knee pressed against the younger's groin and the moan that ensued did _things_ to the older man. He pulled Sicheng's tee up to his armpits as to tilt down and pepper brief, feather-like kisses across the wavering chest, which heaved with every riven breath the other would draw out, laborious and audible. By now, Sicheng was vaguely aware at what intangible pace the man's gestures shifted in nature; gentle and playful one instant, ruthless and staggering the very next, and he couldn't bring himself to hate either. Not when he practically asked for every yet so minor drop of attention the other was willing to devote to him.

 

Sicheng elicited a quiet whimper when Taeyong's tongue started working on his nipple, and slender digits came to thread themselves between the man's brunatre locks, cautiously digging into his scalp as hands gradually and imperceptibly tugged at the boy's boxer shorts, finding hold on Sicheng's weeping length. Sicheng barely suppressed a moan. 

 

"Shh," Taeyong hushed, detaching his lips from the tender skin. "We can't have them thinking you're enjoying yourself in this place, now can we?"

 

An almost inconspicuous, teasing undercurrent went with that query and Sicheng wanted to frown, maybe remark something in return. But his thoughts were traveling hosts of miles a second and not a single syllable that would escape his quavering lips thereupon, resembled anything near coherent when Taeyong's hand _squeezed_ his shaft, thumb provokingly depressing against the exceedingly sensitive tip. Taeyong's other hand came to pry upon those plush couplets and he indulged himself in letting two fingers push past the pretty seal, the younger's pate tilted back into the comfort of his pillow, eyes pressing shut, jaw slack.

 

Taeyong jerked Sicheng at _excruciatingly_ dragging rate, whilst his fingers remained latched to his lips, waiting till eager tongue wreathed round them with avid spirit and the imagery of it all was too sinful, too _filthy_ in contrast to the boy's angelic bearing. Once imbrued with saliva, the hand made way between smooth thighs, which Sicheng knew how to spread oh so obediently and Taeyong leaned down, muting anemic whimpering with the lock of his lips as the tip of his first finger thoughtfully circled at the perpetual clenching and unclenching of the boy's rim before he steadily pushed in, the tugs on the smaller's length coming to a curt halt. Sicheng writhed softly, clenching around the digit. He should be used to this by now. But really, he couldn't possibly get used to any of it. Taeyong barely missed a beat before he initiated movement, tongue appeasing the pang with gentle kisses, thorough and outright addicting. Sicheng wondered what experiences the man had acquired on his thirty-three years on earth, how he acquired them, where, when, with _who_. Did they make his heart run riot, like he did with his? Was he as bashful, as spellbound, intoxicated by inclination as Sicheng? Did he _love_ them? Cling to their every word? 

 

Did they see the same stars in those dangerously captivating eyes?

 

Sicheng heaved out a sigh of contentedness when the ache eased off by a tad, warm pleasure splaying atop the sting like viscous liquid when the pad of the man's fingertip curled against a very particular nerve and Taeyong's lips drew patterns on his jaw, the gracile line of his neck, out for display, biding to be claimed, mapped, _marked_. Taeyong continued stimulating that very spot and for a moment Sicheng could note the perceptible presence of a stare, despite shut eyes. Because undoubtedly everything about Taeyong _burned_ when it came in contact with his skin, as if it was to remind him how wrong this was, and as a matter of fact, the man's very gaze was no exception, when it dwelled and monitored the minutest twitch in Sicheng's visage as he fucked an additional finger into the coiling heat. Sicheng wanted to tell him, yearned to let him know " _it's ok"_ , _"it's alright, you can use me"_ , eager to be corrupted till he'd lose all recollection of the daunting subsistence of home, because _this_. This was home. A feeling, a brief overpowering by absolute bliss and a suffocating heat that made his toes curl, a whisper. His whisper, and his lips on the sweat-beaded superfice of his forehead. 

 

His touch.

 

 

And every heartbeat felt like it served purpose.

 

 

Taeyong withdrew his fingers after a particularly hard thrust that had Sicheng choking on his saliva, proceeding to unbutton his own shirt and letting it laxly drape the sturdy expanse of his shoulders before he trailed a path of wet kisses along the boy's chest, stomach, the playful tip of a tongue dipping slightly into Sicheng's tight navel whereon he casted his glance upwards to spot the latter biting down a smile. 

 

_Cute_. 

 

Ultimately ridding the younger of his pants, Taeyong's hands found grasp in those silky thighs and pushed them forward with a tinge of force; Sicheng feeling denuded as ever, the strait pucker on full display and clenching at the nothingness that had replaced sweet friction instants ago. His skin perceivably shivered at the chilly sensation of air being blown against the sensitive rim, still moist, exposed, and the older planted unhurried kisses along his inner thighs, sometimes barely avoiding the tight ring of muscles making the boy's breath hitch as he clenched at the sheets, knuckles adopting its very color when Taeyong finally laid his tongue flat against the puncture.

 

Sicheng _whined_. He didn't dare ask the older to hurry up, even if he the ache was excruciating and the pace razing. Or maybe he simply couldn't, tongue too occupied tying itself into insoluble knots and his vocabulary depleting to adrift moans when the slick muscle started prodding his insides, tardily, and all the more frustrating as the fill never quite felt like _enough_ , mere taunting without the aim of actually driving the boy over the edge, letting him brush it, reach out for it, in vain. The man's tongue skillfully stretched him open, watery sounds adding to the faint noise of needy whimpers. Sicheng grew impatient to an unbearable degree and his face contorted, frantically pressing his cheek into the pillow before breathing out. 

 

"Tae–" 

 

A wee pool of saliva gathered at his rim once Taeyong withdrew. He hiked upward between the boy's legs to meet Sicheng in a wet lip lock, and Sicheng moaned into his mouth, dainty digits coming to dig into the man's shoulders, wanting to draw him nearer, feel him more acutely, hinder the high from slipping past his fingers and dissolving into the thin air before he could winkle the outright most out of it.

 

"Ready?"

 

Sicheng's lids unclasped. 

 

Taeyong was looking down at him, and the boy hadn't even taken note of how the man's length had aligned with his entrance, carefully sliding up and down between slicked up cheeks, wet and messy from the remnants of saliva that oozed past the petite ring of muscles. Taeyong's eyes bore a quizzical sentiment, and somehow, for that very brief yet all the more peerless instant, something of such precarious and diffident nature took up the overall expanse of the man's countenance. And it was that moment, that it seemed as if not a year severed their blighted souls, that Sicheng found himself in position to take charge, maybe for once, and possibly never again. Flinging his arms around the the older's neck, Sicheng tugged the man closer until their bodies aligned seamlessly, his face coming to rest against the crook of Taeyong's neck before he tilted his pate upward as to acquaint his lips with the shell of the doctor's ear, a sweet sonority slinking his way in form of a hushed whisper.

 

"Use me."

 

And there wasn't even a beat before Taeyong eased inside, groaning, as if he had been hungering for that very cue.

 

This wasn't their first time. No, by no means should one pass over the first episode that Taeyong snuck underneath Sicheng's comforter as soon as the moon bid the sun goodbye, that Sicheng was stretched, and filled, and _taken_ with every ounce of his hormonal bearing raving and reveling, yearning and griping whatever came his way. But something was so very different about this particular time around; and while Sicheng couldn't quite put a finger on what it was exactly, that evident _something_ that malevolently toyed with the man's seemingly raging cogitations, Sicheng embraced the fact that it made the other more vulnerable. Because as much as Sicheng had become addicted to the man's strong and dominant vein that came so naturally in their dynamic, he subconsciously longed for that much more profound insight, died to solve the riddles that played in Taeyong's eyes that somehow still locked away an immense quantity of _personhood_ for Sicheng to explore and hold in veneration. So when Taeyong caved deeper into the suction, hands on either side of Sicheng's head as he hovered atop the smaller, stance weak from the sudden bursts of pleasure that stirred the very endings of his nerves and firing through his limbs at a velocity they threatened to give in, Sicheng's eyes remained as widely open as he could manage under the circumstance, indulging himself in both the spectacle of Taeyong's focused mien and the feeling of being torn and coincidentally filled to the absolute brim. It was blissful, and ecstatic, and Sicheng wanted to wind himself around the older, pull him closer, push him _deeper_.

 

"M-Move."

 

Something in Taeyong's expression stirred, visibly caught off guard by yet another display of that unusual strain of straightforwardness and for a whole moment he didn't say anything, didn't move. Not until a sound closely resembling a whine pushed itself out of some abstruse, corded nook of Sicheng's throat and the other slid almost completely out of the younger before plunging back in with shocking precision. 

 

Yet from then on, not one motion had even the remotest semblance to the latter trait. 

 

Taeyong repeatedly reintroduced himself into the constricting heat, essentially _ramming_ and barely aiming the thrusts, avid and vigorous, thoroughgoing that it left Sicheng at a loss of words and his deliverance was limited down to an incomprehensible mayhem of syllables and adrift whimpers. His knuckles turned white from the adamant manner in which he clutched the twisted sheets beneath, brows contracting, and bed spouting continual sounds of protest as it shook with every assiduous stab of hips. The underside of Sicheng's thighs adopted an angry hue, redness blooming from the repeated slap of skin against skin, flesh bruising against flesh when one of Taeyong's hands abruptly seized a leg, pinning it slightly forward as to bury himself deeper inside the younger, thumb painfully digging into the silken derma and Sicheng tried his hardest to stifle the cries. 

 

He was being wrecked. Wrecked thoroughly and maybe beyond a chance of recovery, if Sicheng was to judge on site. But the pleasure, the delicious pleasure that enfolded his every limb, put mind and solid into a state of unmitigated integrity and contentedness, a floating space of nothingness that introduced to infinities that reached far beyond what he'd allow himself to imagine in his wildest dreams, an ardency; an ardency so insufferable that it evoked the unyielding wish for release and if Taeyong didn't already look like his sole savior then, there was a blinding glory about his sweaty and absolutely ruthless bearing now.

 

Taeyong picked up the speed. Sicheng was gone.

 

The grunts that hustled past the man's lips were hurried, his jaw angrily clenching before he leaned down as to press sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the boy's exposed neck, probably sucking a hickey into existence, possibly two. Sicheng _desperately_ needed to touch himself whereas he proximity to his own release edged rapidly, however, Taeyong failed to spare regard whilst all too lost in the daze of his very own approaching climax, not until Sicheng raised a shaky hand to wrap it around one of the older's wrists, a pleading look seeping through half-lidded eyes and Taeyong quickly grasped the message, unceremoniously closing his hand around the weeping shaft and jerking it with quick and avid strokes. 

 

Mere seconds later, Sicheng's abdomen adorned itself with the splay of viscid white ribbons. 

 

Adamantly chasing release, Taeyong quickly pulled out and repositioned himself in front of the boy's plush lips, pushing past with raw conviction and fucking himself into the lax cavity, until he too, came undone and loads of white warmth percolated in the boy's mouth and throat. Sicheng knew well enough to swallow, and once he did, he uncontrollably gasped for air, pinched yet immensely titillated from the overbearing aftershock of his orgasm and his back spasmed, just the slightest, before the weight on top of him shifted and yet again he could find himself floating. Gratified. _Happy?_

 

Taeyong's lips came upon his and they kissed; long and unhurriedly, tender and slow. When the older collapsed to the boy's side, Sicheng took it upon himself to lock his limbs around his and nestled his head atop those broad shoulders, the position so exceedingly peaceful. He felt complete. At ease. Tired. Before Sicheng could give into the creeping wish to drop off just like this, he murmured out a last concluding promise.

 

 

"I'm yours," he sighed tiredly, albeit with a strange sense of contentment. "Always yours."

 

As if the circumstance inquired after confirmation. Taeyong heaved a sigh.

 

 

 

 

 Just like with every streak of seemingly ethereal happiness, the light of fortune has the property of lapsing at abrupt instant. To no surprise did Sicheng awake the next day without the convenience of having another solid next to him to leech warmth from, and after he readied himself for the day, washing up, getting dressed, trying to conceal the stupidly evident limp in his walk, he made his way to the common room where he and Yuta had arranged to meet at noon a day prior. He got one of the nurses to make him a cup of hot chocolate, and settled in one of the grayly upholstered lounge chairs at the corner of the common room, burning the tip of his tongue in the premature nipping on the steaming beverage. There was still plenty of time before Yuta would accompany him, so Sicheng passed the minutes flipping through one of the books that he had picked up from the shelf across the room, one loaded with images considering that he still struggled with the language and his brain was yet to fully wake up in order to process more complex Korean than the simple wording he found in the outdated children's book he held in his hands. He sat in a lotus position, knees resting against the armrests of the chair as he carefully regarded the images, unconcerned and with a natural pout on reddish lips, not heedful enough to register a tall figure approaching until its shadow casted over one of the pages, Sicheng startling and quickly snapping his head upward. He slightly shook his head as to get the raven bangs to fall out of his field of vision. 

 

"Zheng?"

 

The older greeted him with a cordial smile. 

 

"What are you–"

 

"I brought you pancakes," the man held up a paper bag, before plopping it onto the coffee table to Sicheng's side. "Of course, they don't come close to mother's standards, but I made sure the place has good reviews. You should eat them."

 

Sicheng looked at him, wide-eyed. The last time his brother had gotten something for him must've been years ago. "Uh, thanks." He stumbled dumbly, not knowing what to say. His brother carried an odd air with him, something Sicheng knew, but never quite got accustomed to. Maybe that was it; being exposed to his brother's kind vein so frequently in such short span of time. Sicheng bit down on his bottom lip. Zheng took seat in the chair to his right, shrugging off his coat and putting it over the armrest. 

 

"I called the hospital to make sure you're awake. I didn't want to wake you," he offered a glaring smile. "Considering my brother is a little dormouse, isn't he?"

 

Sicheng's teeth sank further into his lip and he nodded, bowing his head to look at his ankles. Yet again, he couldn't help but discern an odd hunch of unease sprawling at the bottom of his stomach, a heat he would've accredited to the intake of hot chocolate if it wasn't so belligerently burning the walls of his interior. 

 

"Don't you have work?" Sicheng heaved out, trying to sound as if genuinely concerned his brother might be missing out on something because of him. Not that that wasn't the truth. It just wasn't _entirely_ the truth.

 

"Advantage of being your own boss is that you appoint your own vacations. Besides, I have someone important to look after, the circumstance is appropriate." 

 

_Like I was important when they abandoned me here?_

 

"I want to take care of you, Sicheng. From now on, you can lean on me. I'll finally be the big brother you deserve, and more." 

 

_And more?_

 

"If there's anything I can do to help you heal faster, you should not hesitate to tell me. All I want for you is to get back home, so we can be a family again. A real family, like back when we spent our summers here. Do you remember, Sicheng? When you wanted me to give you a piggyback ride through the garden and I told you not unless you kiss my feet?"

 

_I did end up kissing them._

 

"You were such a happy child. I wonder what happened along the way, where we went so wrong. Ah," he shook his head. "I just wish I could get you out of here right now."

 

 

Every word bit, bit bloody wounds into his smarting flesh until they spluttered red and layered the cogitations that whirred through his mind with a dim filter. He couldn't put a finger on _why_ he felt so acutely, why his brother's relations put him in a state of such internal bedlam, he wanted to scream for it to stop. The greatest irony yet had to be that he could clearly recall himself despairingly wishing for his brother to tend to him on such profound level, wished to stir a caring sentiment in whose distant eyes, all those times when he had been told off or countered with scorn, pleading bearing and runny vision yearning appeasement even in its minutest forms, crying out in voiceless screams. Back then, it had been time for him to grown up. But something didn't let him, a force pushing him back to his knees as if it coerced him to remain speckless and small, as if someone was to trap him in the form of a clueless toddler who simply wasn't _meant_ to grow past the dainty and shallow, improvident and undoubtedly obedient, because that's who he was and this was his place. _Kissing someone else's feet in order to get what he wanted._

 

"What if I like it here?" Sicheng muttered out, barely taking note of the fact that he actually voiced something aloud.

 

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied with an airy laugh, his palm coming to knock against Sicheng's knee, the latter twitching upon contact. "Everyone is waiting for you to come home. Furthermore, I really feel like being selfish now. I want you for myself for once. You know, spend some quality time with my little brother. It's long overdue and I want to make up for the time I missed out. But that's hard when you're tied to this place ... come home, Sicheng." he leaned closer, head tilting to the side by a tad whilst playing an almost pitiful mien on his weary, nevertheless handsome features. "Come home."

 

The younger's eyes were wide open, and while he tried hard not to look incredulously, he couldn't conceal a pungent tinge of puzzlement. 

 

Just why was there such a sudden strain for him to return, why was he suddenly treated with such relevance, _why was his brother so painfully adamant on having him near?_ The questions swam around the murk of his frenzied mind and it was a challenge to not get distracted by the overbearing amount of heat that prickled under the patch of skin where the older had placed his hand, the touch feeling foreign, out of place. He tried for a reaction, some sort of reply that could possibly reject any invitation for resumption of the conversation without sounding conspicuous, however, silence appeared sufficient enough to bid welcome for the other to take hold of Sicheng's unoccupied hand, pulling it to his much thinner lips to press a gentle peck to its very back, Sicheng's glimpse stark on the clutch around his wrist and yet again, he could hear distant alarm bells go off. 

 

_This wasn't weird. This shouldn't be weird._

 

He raised his regard to meet his brother's when he suddenly felt something warm and wet press against the small expanse of skin. 

 

 

His surroundings came to halt. 

 

Sicheng shuddered.

 

 

Zheng was looking at him, a permeating stare drilling holes into the soft ebony of his eyes. 

 

His hand still covered the older's mouth.

 

And then, he felt it again. 

 

The boy couldn't get his eyes to pull away from the unyielding lock, feeling as if he was to undergo a disconcerting punishment if he as much as disrespected the other by drawing his attention away which he was so evidently demanding to retain. Open-mouthed kisses splayed over the silky skin and again, Sicheng couldn't help but shiver, so desperate to avert his gaze to look at everything, _anything_ but those alien eyes, anything to distract him from the parching sensation that gnawed against the back of his hand, wrist snared in the ever tightening grip around it as to keep it in place. Seconds turned into an awful stretch of hours in his mind, and he unconsciously bit the inside of his cheek, probably making it bleed judging from the faint smack of metal against the rigid tongue. 

 

_Why did no one notice? Why did no one say anything?_

 

He would've internally cursed the clinic for being so godforsaken, despite always having welcomed the peaceful solitude, especially at mornings like these. Last time he had checked, there was merely a nurse, sitting behind an elevated counter, too distracted by what seemed to be paperwork to grant him the redemption of her regard and the alarm bells grew louder, begging for heed through the thickness of the silence between the occasional feeble sound of papers flipping, a stapler, a cough.

 

Then, footsteps. Firm. Resolute.

 

Finally, Sicheng's eyes detached and his hand fell to the armrest, the footsteps gradually approaching and coming to halt not too far from their situation before the boy could engage in learning who he was to thank; a voice raising from the stifling silence.

 

"Sicheng. You're up."

 

Sicheng faked a smile, but Taeyong saw right through it.

 

"Mhm."

 

Taeyong's gaze clicked to the man seated in the other chair. "I don't think we've met."

 

Something about the air changed immediately. There was an ever growing presence of tension in the room, even the nurse seeming to have become aware of as she peeked her head over the counter just enough to catch a glimpse of the scene, her attendance however long dismissed by everyone involved. Taeyong towered, his physiognomy giving away that he was _aware_ he had been interrupting something and Zheng countered with an equally hectoring bearing, eyes narrowing in the stretch of an instant before he lifted himself off his seat, his size overpowering Taeyong's by barely a few inches. Taeyong didn't seem to cower the slightest. 

 

Zheng extended a hand towards the doctor, the politeness in his tonality tinged with the ever so evident undercurrent of possessiveness. 

 

"Dong Zheng, pleased to make your acquaintance," he flashed one of those brilliant smiles, the vibe bearing nothing even closely resembling to authenticity. "And you are?"

 

Taeyong accepted the handshake, grip so tight that Sicheng could make out a slight twitch of discomfort from the other and he pulled his legs even closer to his already curled up frame. "Lee Taeyong, consulting psychiatrist. The pleasure is all mine."

 

Sicheng swallowed thickly.

 

_This was bad._

 

Zheng pushed out an airy laugh, their hands still firmly locked and not a drop laxer. "How convenient! I wanted to discuss with you how my brother's treatment is progressing," he leaned closer by a tad. "Considering he's been here for such a long time now he should already be in his final stages of recovery, now shouldn't he?" 

 

There was a iciness that laced his words and venom that seeped through the gaps in between and Sicheng couldn't decide if he preferred bone-crushing silence or stabbing conversation. But again, Taeyong's stance didn't falter in the slightest.

 

"One should not rush a patient's healing process if it's expected to have permanent effect, sir. Sicheng is doing incredibly well for his position, I don't think anyone in this department who can declare themselves a competent medical practitioner would be foolish enough to prioritize the _period of time_ it takes the patient to advance with treatment. I wouldn't suggest–"

 

"Oh, I don't doubt that Sicheng is doing his best," Zheng cut the older off, something noxious playing on his features as his smile contorted into something twisted, almost ugly in contrast to that habitual winner smile. "In fact, what I'd much rather doubt _is_ your competence. How can I be sure that my beloved brother is being provided with the best possible treatment? That his efforts to find proper recovery aren't running to waste because some self-assured, self-proclaimed specialist is simply lacking the _proficiency_ to help?"

 

Taeyong's eyes narrowed. Sicheng was alarmed, watching the disaster unfold in front of his eyes. 

 

"No need to become disrespectful, sir."

 

"Don't get me wrong," Zheng continued, obviously not contemplating to let Taeyong continue. "It's just that I don't know you. How could I trust you without any tangible proof? I'm merely a concerned brother, looking out for the one dear to me. I feel that it's appropriate for me to become suspicious if after multiple weeks of treatment there's still no evidence of any significant progress."

 

Wanting to combust right on spot, Sicheng drank in a grand amount of the static air, forgetting to exhale as he internally scolded himself for putting Taeyong in such a position. _It was his fault, all his fault. All his fault for not being convincing enough. All his fault that Taeyong had to lie, had to stand up for him, had to have this conversation, had to endanger his reputation like that. All his fault that he didn't know how to stand up for himself. All his fault for craving something so outlawed._

 

He screwed his eyes shut, lacking the potency to further observe the happenings, and his ears muffled the voices that continued to ring, tenseness growing by the second. 

 

"Sicheng is doing a lot of progress, much more than I presumed him to make in this span of time–"

 

"So you would agree with me?"

 

"Excuse me, sir?"

 

"Sicheng isn't the problem, it's you?"

 

"There isn't a problem," now Taeyong's voice bordered to flagrant irritation, and Sicheng could practically envision him pushing up his glasses in an act of trying to reclaim composure. "The treatment is proceeding as it should, at an appropriate pace. I wouldn't consider it smart to change his setting just yet as he only just managed to settle in comfortably, which is a great advantage if we want to be successful with our aim. With all due respect, sir, believe me when I say this," Taeyong took hardly a step closer, now mimicking his opponent's self-assured glimpse all whilst maintaining a professional and earnest mien. "I care about Sicheng's recovery just as much as you do. My patients are my responsibility, their wellbeing is my priority. You have nothing to worry about."

 

And yet again, Sicheng perceived an apparent shift in the air that surrounded them, although he couldn't quite discern the various sentiments that charged the atmosphere. But Sicheng feared all the more, feared that he might've triggered something he couldn't fix and eventually he opened his eyes and steered his glimpse to Taeyong who was counter-intuitively already looking his way; their little exchange patently catching the attention of Zheng who immediately threw a glance over his shoulder, Sicheng reflexively cowering and backtracking his regard to let it slump to his feet. 

 

Then, it struck him.

 

 

What if he _knew_? 

 

 

Horror settled in Sicheng's bones and he was too deflected with desperately attempting to controvert the immediate stream of harrowing possibilities that might materialize if his assumptions proved to be correct, tremor in his limbs, stasis in his lungs. He didn't catch his brother turning back to meet Taeyong's eyes, not the brief exchange of hushed menace that slunk past toxic lips only for the doctor to catch, he couldn't know, only predict, _only assume_ , when suddenly yet noninvolved voice rose amongst the others; making Sicheng's heart twist with a strong sentiment of utmost gratitude.

 

 

"Did someone die or has it always been this bleak in here?" Yuta's voice chimed with the usual jest, and Sicheng thanked the heavens for his companion's timing.

 

Both adults snapped their heads towards the Japanese male. 

 

"Patient Nakamoto, choice of w–"

 

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah _yeah_ ," Yuta rolled his eyes with such exaggeration, one might've accredited him ten years less than his actual age. "I'm just here to pick up my date, doc." He turned his regard to Sicheng, a knowing grin playing on his bright and fetching futures (probably because he was very much aware what such statement triggered amongst the present parties). "Sicheng, you ready?"

 

Sicheng had never nodded so avidly, hands coming to the armrests to quickly push him off his position on the chair before he scurried over to the other's side, arms linking upon offering. His gaze remained plastered to the flooring.

 

"Sorry to steal the show, boys," Part of Sicheng wanted to clasp a hand in front of Yuta's mouth, another part couldn't be more grateful. "Me and my date will be off to a romantic lunch now. But don't be too disappointed; it's not like any of you had a single chance against me to begin with."

 

"Enough, Yuta."

 

Taeyong gave Yuta a _look_ and Yuta knew well enough to comply; Zheng too occupied with eyeing Yuta with bewildered expression to note the exchange.

 

"Gentlemen," Yuta excused himself with a dramatic bow, removing Sicheng and himself from the site and steering the two of them towards his hospital room. 

 

Sicheng ventured on throwing one last glance over his shoulder. 

 

He met Taeyong's eyes for a brief, excruciating instant, the older excusing himself as well thereupon. Zheng on the other hand, lingered, eyes trained to a particular spot and when Sicheng pursued the tracks, his gaze curtly landed upon the unmoved paper bag that remained situated on the coffee table next to the chair he had priorly occupied. The lump in his gut stirred.

 

Something told him he shouldn't feel guilty.

 

 

But he did.

 

 

 

 

"He doesn't know."

 

"He knows."

  
"Doesn't."

 

"But I'm telling you, _he does_!"

 

Sicheng was currently hiking circles around his friend's room, the other's eyes trailing his every footfall. 

 

"There's no way he does."

 

"He practically strangled Taeyong with his eyes. I saw! You weren't there, but I saw!"

 

"So what if he did, what can he actually do."

 

Sicheng started to grow irritated with the so very apparent fact that he was the only one consumed by utter maddening _panic_. The events of just a few moments ago had finally caught up to him, now that the air finally flowed and the static didn't cord his throat with gut-wrenching anxiety. At least not as severely as at the face of occurrences.

 

_"What can he do?"_ Sicheng stopped in his tracks, a disturbing mixture of disbelief and shock seizing his aghast facies. "What can he do!?" He repeated for dramatic effect, or to gather his thoughts, he wasn't sure. "He could, I don't know, tell my father, or worse, he could just, immediately come and get me, and then, then I'd be at his place and, and ... no!" 

 

His voice wavered acutely, Yuta's expression finally passing over to genuine alertness as against the unaccustomed collectedness he kept fastened to his lips ever since they entered his room, Sicheng's anxious vein quickly overawing the trained silence they had adhered to on their way. No, Yuta wasn't the serious type. But he certainly knew when to shut up and listen, even though Sicheng would do anything to tear his thoughts far away from the obscure place they had nestled into against all his efforts to hold them off. They had no business in there. Just like his brother had no business disrupting the blissful quiet he had been trying to preserve so desperately. 

 

"Right now he doesn't have a reason to take you away from here, at least nothing solid. If he actually cares about you he wouldn't–"

 

"But that's the point! He _doesn't_ care!"

 

"You sure though?"

 

"I am."

 

"Well, but didn't he come to visit to check after you?"

 

"Not because he cares."

 

"Because of what then?"

 

Sicheng frowned, head sinking. "I don't know." He genuinely didn't. Or maybe his subconscious had been very much aware, yet didn't want to refer to it for good.

 

"Sicheng," His head snapped upward, unwitting that he had been lost in thought until the other male spoke up, slowly lifting himself off the edge of the bed and walking towards the Chinese. "Is there anything you would ... want or need to tell me?" 

 

The look on the other's facies had something piercing, rinsed with a frank sentiment of solicitude that made Sicheng's heart ache; he took a step back. _No._ There wasn't really anything he had to tell him. After all, nothing out of the ordinary had happened, had there? His brother had a pregnant wife, a sprouting fortune, and two healthy legs to stand on apart from a splendid appearance. All of Sicheng's unuttered worries were misguided; they had to be. He had nothing to offer. Nothing his brother could possibly want from him. 

 

Nothing Sicheng might fear the loss of.

 

So when Yuta placed a comforting hand on Sicheng's unaccustomedly tense shoulder, the boy's earnest eyes speaking volumes of implied queries that Sicheng had no intention of voluntarily deciphering, he simply shook his head, a meek "No." rolling off his burning tongue.

 

 

 

 

An choked off moan bubbled past the boy's lips when he awakened with the wettish press of warm flesh against the inside of his left thigh, the touch dangerously near the setout of his cock. He stirred. The sensation didn't go away. He let it plough ahead, barely registering that dreams were long outdistanced, completely out of reach, and automatically reached dainty digits underneath the almost suffocating layer of covers as to thread them with a brunette head of hair between his legs, eager mouth now vehemently sucking at the sensitive skin. Sicheng's eyes tore open when he felt teeth join in.

 

"Ah, Taeyong," he yanked at the strands, albeit weakly, whilst his other hand came to rest upon his mouth to muffle the increasing pitch of moans. However, the movements remained avid, unstirred by meek cries of protest as the intruder proceeded to mark up the seamless expanse of skin, demeanor bordering to downright possessiveness in the way he clutched at the younger's legs, forcing them apart with conviction. He writhed, trying to flee the touch, wriggling, kicking, pulling at the silky locks, the grip merely intensifying along with the zeal of his tongue, sucking faster, biting harder, and the boy's face contorted ever so slightly, sounds of discomfort now slipping into the airless atmosphere. 

 

 

And then, Sicheng saw it, right there in front of his inner eye; dreadful possibility.

 

 

"Taeyong!?" 

 

Finally, the figure stilled and the covers raised. It was quite the spectacle, ruffled hair, puffed lips, scorching ebonies that bore a sense of fright, much resembling a deer caught in the headlights as the back of his hand messily swiped at his mouth, shameful regard dashing miles an hour before pinning itself back to the boy who merely countered with cowed poise. 

 

Taeyong. 

 

Sicheng breathed a sigh of relief.

 

_Taeyong._

 

 

They sat in silence for a couple of beats until the older sat himself up further, gaze far afield as he heaved a particularly rueful tonality. 

 

"I'm sorry." 

 

Mimicking his movements, Sicheng gradually built himself up with the support of his arms till he sat face to face with the older, a timid hand coming to rest upon the man's sharp jaw, speechless, yet so utterly fond in the way he let the smooth pad of his thumb swipe over the uptight bone, skin growing warmer under the gentle contingence. The man's eyes clenched shut.

 

"Hyung," Sicheng breathed out, breaking the quiet. 

 

All that Sicheng desired was a flimsy ray of light to illuminate leastwise the minutest fraction of the older's shuttered mind, to grant him insight, clarity, _comprehension_ of what was playing down whilst his typically so self-assured, bordering intimidating facies continued leaking these little slips of insecurity, traceable in his eyes, that frown, that heart-breaking frown that Sicheng found far too endearing for his own good. It felt intimate. Hardly ever did he obtain such insight, rarely was he able to indulge himself in actively entertaining the notion of Taeyong breaking underneath the hard shell of authority and control, the soft edges merely seeping through when he'd _allow_ them to. It was sort of self-evident; until it wasn't, and Sicheng had subconsciously been on constant lookout for a crack in the seamless canvas, so he could nestle inside, maybe catch a glimpse of what's underneath, drink it in till Taeyong would fill the gaps again. But Sicheng was fine with that, most of the time. It was a chase, of sorts, and it kept him busy, was his priority aim. He figured, it would be fine like that. 

 

He didn't take into consideration that Taeyong might be _needing_ him to do that at a point so soon though. The phrase seemed to trigger something in the older, gaze fastening to an indefinite spot below. He looked almost boyish, crouched like that, with the blanket laid out over those broad shoulders, sorry eyes, messy hair; _endearing_. Not thirty plus and stressed out. Sicheng felt at a loss of words, unfamiliar with the circumstance, so he tried for what he _knew_ once again.

 

"Hyung," Again. "Hyung, what's–"

 

"I'm really sorry, Sicheng," he repeated himself, too, cutting the younger off. Sicheng fell quiet, feeling that the other might continue if he just gave him the space to do so. Acquiring no reaction, he pushed on.

 

"Sorry about...?"

 

"Giving in. Spurring this on. Spoiling you, letting my rotten self touch you like this. It's wrong," he finally unclosed his lids. "You deserve better."

 

Sicheng's respiration faltered, suddenly finding it hard to look the other in the eyes. 

 

"I wish I could give you more and I'm afraid that," he halted for a brief second, seemingly rearranging the words in his head. "That what I have to give is not enough to make this worth it, make it worth ruining you like this, you came here to get fixed and look at me now, being selfish enough to think that you're,"

 

He paused. 

 

"Think that I'm what."

 

"Mine."

 

Sicheng's heart seized in his chest. The tone of the conversation was too serious for him to feel so completely enamored at that. He fought the hue that bloomed on the tip of his ears with conviction.

 

"First of all, I didn't come here to get fixed," Sicheng took up a resolute tonality, a rare sense of self-confidence mirroring in his poise as he built himself up. "I was put here. I didn't have a choice, I didn't assume there's anything to fix about me to begin with, I simply assumed that that's just me and that it will most likely stay that way. It's like I knew that to be a fact." He briefly bit into this bottom lip. "Then ... you were there and for the first time I felt like I am relevant enough to be heard out. _I_ came after you after that. It was _me_ who asked for your attention when you were just doing your job, it was me who asked to be yours. I want to be yours, I want it so badly that I feel embarrassed. I want it so badly that I don't want to go home and I don't even know what home is anymore. Maybe you see it as a curse, Taeyong," he looked deeply into the other's eyes, profundity growing by the instant. "But this is the best thing that's ever happened to me and I don't have anything else."

 

That confession patently catching the older flat-footed, he inspected Sicheng's mien with an astonished cue in his regard. 

 

He knew he meant _something_ to the boy. Characterized what he saw in those lovelorn eyes as some sort of unsound crush, a hormonal fever, a mood; well aware of Sicheng's situation and how his emotions could be easily misguided, blinded by the lack of sympathy and respect within his domestic setting, yes, Taeyong was _painfully_ aware that he was exploiting a fragile soul at its most vulnerable stance and he felt absolutely atrocious, nevertheless terribly infatuated with those soft eyes and the vibrant, complex wit behind them. He was stupid, so immensely stupid, even more so having in contemplation how he actively chose to bemuse his mind with that very stupidity he found so alluring. And he was scared, _terrified_ , of the consequences. 

 

Possibly and much probably like never before in his life.

 

However, Sicheng was facing him, a security lacing his voice that made him waver, possibly, maybe, being with Sicheng would be his redemption just like it was his curse, maybe he could fix something, _anything_ whilst busy with the act of planting explosive traps all around his conscience in a subconscious, self-destructive constant that had replaced every rational notion in that havoc of a mind. If he couldn't save himself, couldn't respect himself or his position any further, then who else would he pay the compliment of passing everything he had to give on to? He never doubted Sicheng would be worthy of his love; merely feared that he wasn't worthy of sullying such speckless skin with something as corrupt as an aged man's love. If he had been wise enough, he would've taken it, locked it up in some deep, inaccessible nook of his mind and humped the weight of it, like a chain around his very ankles, for the rest of his subsistence until some divine spirit would've granted him exile for not giving into those sick temptations. But he was beyond that line, crossed it when he laid finger upon the boy and the last thing that he was to salvage in order to shorten, or at least indulge himself in the suffering of damnation was Sicheng. Sicheng's happiness, Sicheng's resort, security, Sicheng's every wish. 

 

If Sicheng explicitly asked him to be his happiness, then who was he to deprive him of it in the first place? More particularly, because it was all Taeyong had wanted for him from the very first moment those eyes crinkled into luminescent half-moons and Taeyong _knew_ his heart wasn't supposed to ache with fondness, wasn't supposed to spur him on, wasn't supposed to knock the wind out of his lungs with every melodic laughter the boy gifted him with on mornings that used to be bitter like the nurse's sad attempt at making coffee. Reality was, Taeyong was immensely stressed at the realization that they weren't the only people to exist in this edenic hideout that they had created for themselves throughout daily sessions and late night piacle, no, they weren't alone, never were and there was the menacing possibility of being _exposed_ and at last, Taeyong would be faced with two choices; signing the contract or tearing it to pieces.

 

 

Leaving it all behind or breaking what had been put into his unversed hands.

 

 

Sicheng was studying the older's mien intently, and eventually, Taeyong spoke up.

 

"Tell me what you want me to do."

 

Sicheng was quick to reply.

 

"I want you to keep me."

 

"What does that mean for me?" Surely, Taeyong would've felt like a madman watching himself lay his entire future into a boy's open palms, to do with it as he considers fit. Maybe he simply wasn't himself anymore. Rational Taeyong was far gone.

 

"I know that my judgement never meant a lot, but," The boy's voice faltered, receding to a whisper as he let his gaze rove off. "But I think that means I love you."

 

 

Taeyong would've laughed at that. Under different circumstance, _maybe_. Love. A term most foreign to those who believe to be familiar with the sentiment, and yet, whatever young, injudicious drive caused the boy to entertain such battered, foul, whitewashed concept, Taeyong believed. He believed and let the love course out of him in heavy downpour, air heavy with breathless moans as it manifested in relentless thrusts and white liquid sunshine once the notion seeped through his every limb, until he had made it a divine subsistence to worship and praise; because when Sicheng clung to him, adrift and small, fireworks on his tongue, haze thick in his heavy, when yet incessantly beautiful eyes, Taeyong declared himself ready to fight war for this religion that took form in skinny bones and crescent eyes. 

 

 

Fucked in every sense of the word and drunk on cupid's viperous potion, it was on them to find shelter before commencement of the upcoming storm, no matter how vigorous the virtual walls of isolation may have appeared to be when Taeyong indulged himself in cradling Sicheng with all his might.

 

 

 

 

Zheng wasn't one to admit defeat, and one may claim it's what had gotten him as far as he was in the harsh climate of the capitalist business world. What he was notorious for, however, was the way he coped with it by making others suffer the consequences; habitually, his underlings. Occasionally, his wife. Latterly, Sicheng, on his early visitation the very next day. Sicheng knew to counter with caution, choosing his words with such diligent nature as if drafting which type of torture would cause the least discomfort in relation to what he _knew_ his brother was capable of. Surely, the older had been sporting a particularly gentle vein, yet Sicheng wasn't too lightheaded to consider himself safe solely based on a mood his brother seemed to be undergoing. No, not in the least. Sicheng was on steady alert, too paranoid, too _intimate_ with the very way the dominant side of his family conducted itself when they didn't get what they wanted, or when something didn't precisely play out the way they planned. Not that Sicheng could ever sympathize with their philosophy; but after all, he was born and raised in the setting, ate from the same plates, housed in the same rooms, drank from the same porcelain cups. The least he could do was call himself _aware_. 

 

He knew more than he would genuinely care for.

 

So when Zheng planted yet another paper bag with steaming contents on Sicheng's nightstand, the younger was wise enough to put away the book in his hands and whisper a meek "Thank you," before the bed dipped slightly with Zheng taking seat by his side, a possessive clutch already fastened to his lower leg.

 

"How did you sleep?" He asked, a tight smile plastered to whose lips.

 

"Uhm, good," Sicheng muttered, lightly nodding his head along with the words. 

 

"These are from another place. They'll be better than the last ones." His smile moved closer and Sicheng ducked his head. "Try them."

 

Unease settling deep in his gut, the boy reached for the package with wary digits and dropped it on his lap, carefully undoing the seal and averting his facies when a gush of hot steam escapes the paper bag. 

 

"Go ahead," Zheng pushed.

 

Sicheng worried on his bottom lip before sliding his dainty hand into the bag, however, the instant he gets a hold of one of the pastry, he quickly withdraws it with a feeble yelp; the tips of his fingers smarting with the sudden torrid sensation, numbness overpowering the sensitive pads. Before Sicheng had the chance to act on the abrupt happenings, Zheng claimed firm grasp around the dainty wrist and drew it towards his lips, the clutch relentless, tight, and he held the hand in place whilst oh so gently blowing onto the mounting sting.

 

"Sicheng, little one," He paused in the process, not releasing the hand from its position. "Aren't you clumsy."

 

Sicheng didn't know he was holding his breath until it became unbearable, the lack of oxygen kindling a booming clang in his head, the ache of it turning out to be a lot less sufferable than the blisters in the making that adorned the tips of his fingers.

 

But even when the blowing seemed redundant, started lacking effect, Zheng kept him close, _too_ close, and Sicheng would've raised his voice, but he wouldn't. Wouldn't before Zheng would grant him permission to do so. Little did he know opportunity after opportunity was slipping away with every passing second that he let the other indulge in the silkiness of his skin, his uncontested attention, the fragility in his bearing and, above all, his willingness. Because with every lingering touch and every stir in that predatory conduct, every excruciatingly drawn out instant that Sicheng sat unmoving, waiting for all occurrence to terminate, there was more and more potential for the dreadful to unfold. 

 

 

And so it did.

 

 

"What is that."

 

His voice was firm, grave. Sicheng jerked slightly, glimpse panic-fuelled as he traced the direction of his brother's uncharitable regard whereupon it lighted on the hem of his collar.

 

His heart brusquely sunk into the grounds beneath.

 

Taeyong would always make sure that all the marks he'd leave on the younger were concealed just beneath the hem of the customary hospital gown, and since Sicheng would habitually drape his skinny frame in oversized sweaters by virtue of the nonstop running air conditioning, there hadn't ever been bottom to fret about the arousal of suspicion; but Zheng had scheduled his visit to a time prior to the boy's awakening and therefore wasn't so clement as to allow the other to go at his usual morning routine which, regrettably, included the masking of potential slip-ups that Taeyong might've made during his all too enthusiastic love-making. 

 

So there he was.

 

Eyes wide and full of trepidation all whilst plastered onto that one purplish patch of skin that would've flattered his collarbone on every other occasion; except, for this one.

 

"I asked," He said, with more force this time, still clutching the boy's limp wrist with a puissance that couldn't possibly bother Sicheng when he was so preoccupied with silencing the sirens in his mind so that he could rapidly whip out a sensible explanation that would evince his artlessness. "What is that?"

 

Yet, in vain.

 

"I–," 

 

In the stretch of an instant, the hand that previously laid upon the boy's lower leg was now adamantly pulling down the thin fabric of that seamlessly white gown, and from one moment to the other there was nothing left to hide. There, just inches beneath the line of his collar, ducked out of commoners' eyes, stashed away for good, was a masterpiece of purples and wine reds, Taeyong's true, private canvas that Sicheng had been given the quest to patronize and carry. 

 

Watery pearls concentrated themselves at the corners of the teen's eyes, head bowed, shamefully, _defeated_. He didn't want to learn what expression played on the older's features, however, whose aghast vein quickly made itself discernible in an unanticipatedly _violent_ shove, at which Sicheng quickly found himself pinned against the sheets with a pained cry; the packaging on his lap falling over and onto the unloving flooring where the contents dramatically made sally from its paper confines. Sicheng, on the contrary, was now coerced to meet with a pair of menacing ebonies, and while he had undergone similar crunch at a point prior to this one, this particular bearing bore nothing even closely conforming the versant eyes and he ached to close his own, shut them so he could bring the validity of the situation into question, hopefully undeck some major mix-up that his psyche had made him believe as to toy with his sanity, or maybe, _maybe_ so he could eventually wake up to realize that he had, in fact, been trapped in some oddly tangible nightmare. 

 

But none of that transpired and Sicheng hushed entirely when those same daunting eyes neared to alarming proximity till the other's face was merely inches away from his own and he could sense a waft of air hit the superfice of his quivering lips when Zheng heaved his voice to a growl.

 

"Who?" 

 

Not receiving an immediate reply, he tightened his hold and heftily shook the flimsy body. 

 

"Who is it, Sicheng?!" 

 

Quickly after, the gears started turning. 

 

"Is it that doctor?"

 

Another shake.

  
"I asked if it's the doctor, Sicheng? Did he have his lips on you? Did he–,"

 

Suddenly, maniac laugh rang out, and Sicheng couldn't put a halt to the wetness that prickled his eyes, dislimned his vision, made it hazy, irrecognizable images throwing in vibrant dots of spark and he didn't know if he should consider himself grateful or apprehend what the suspension of one of his senses might entail for his safety. Because while all this time the anxiety and premonition had merely smoldered within the pit of his stomach, it was now overawing his entire being and he couldn't move, couldn't let out a sound apart from a consistent whine that remained incarcerated into the constraints of his corded neck.

 

"What did he do to you, huh?"

 

Sicheng could perceive a blaspheming smile in the other's tonality, and somehow it managed to be even more appalling.

 

"Tell me, Sicheng," His lips brushed the boy's exposed neck and Sicheng shivered in discomfort when that very diabolic grin manifested itself against the surface of tremulous skin. "Come on. Tell me, little one!"

 

Now his fingers came to slip underneath the hem of the smaller's gown, forcibly flitting up the denuded skin as if it had been his to claim all along, and he roamed, and engrossed, and claimed, handled, and finally Sicheng could muster something that closely resembled an agonized "Stop,".

 

However, his plead fell on deaf ears, if it didn't spur the other on just a tad further.

 

"Did he touch you like this?"

 

Sicheng couldn't believe this was happening. Couldn't believe that, for once, his gut hadn't deceived him. And it had to be regarding this very matter.

 

A matter so close to _home_.

 

 

Or so it appeared.

 

 

"Did he fuck your little boy cunt?"

 

Sicheng chocked on a sob and in a breath, the older had him turned around and on his knees, side of his face met with the pillow whilst his wrists linked in a forceful clutch behind his back.

 

"How often did he do it? Do you get off during your 'sessions'?"

 

A knee forcefully rammed itself between persistently tensed thighs, followed by a devious hand which avidly prodded its middle finger against the ever so tight, strained rim, sliding upwards, gripping the tender flesh of his bottom, and Sicheng kicked, writhed, _struggled_ , the fight in itself too late to be of grand effect as he merely collapsed further under his brother's enormous size. 

 

"You know, little one. I can see why he does it,"

 

Another sob.

 

"You're so pretty like this. Helpless."

 

A cry.

 

" _Submissive_."

 

He leaned forward, chest pressing flush against the younger's shoulders, breath tickling the shell of whose ear as the fabric of his boxer shorts gradually slid down his legs.

 

"What good old Lee failed to realize though,"

 

Sicheng perceived shuffling and proceeded to squeeze his eyes shut, priming for the worst.

 

"You've already been mine before you could become anyone else's."

 

 

The instant he braced for the inevitable, stringing up his limbs, clenching his jaw, blinding out the images, there was the distinctive sound of a blow, and Sicheng couldn't help how his ears fell deaf to the happenings, in clear supposition that his mind had blanked out completely. 

 

But he was still there, breathing ragged with the continuous catch of broken sobs as he fell idly to his side, foundering, shivering from the sudden lack of hold, and just then, he allowed his lids to come undone, barely managing to blink away the tears when the back of Taeyong's white coat emerged in his field of vision, when yet he failed to infer what was occurring around him or why it turned out that way to begin with.

 

Nonetheless, he knew he was to feel grateful.

 

Sicheng perceived hissing, further punches thrown, vitriolic curses, the hurried footfalls of concerned nurses and quickly enough, Sicheng felt himself be hoisted and tended to by a number of tender touches. 

 

Yet before he could ascertain what lead the situation had taken up, he discerned himself cloaked in the appeasing arms of murk, his solid welcoming the hush of unconsciousness in the matter of no more than a few seconds.

 

 

 

 

Waking up came at a more dragging rate than the loss of consciousness did, however, the ambience bore an energy that was by far more serene than the situation he had last found himself in.

 

Casting aside the fact that the first sight he got to behold was one of such gratifying character.

 

"Sicheng."

 

The corner's of the boy's lips slightly curled upwards.

 

"Taeyong," he murmured in reply.

 

"How are you feeling?"

 

The man's voice was subdued, weary almost, if not rather tinged with a mild undercurrent of sadness. Now that Sicheng took note of it, he could clearly observe the fatigue that somehow managed to pull the elder's handsome features downward by a tad, eyes glassy, nonetheless imbued with that genuine spark of endearment that Sicheng had come to admire so much, and that faint smile that looked more pitiful than it did comforting. Not that it mattered. Furthermore, he was still draped inside his professional gown, glasses, however, nowhere within view. 

 

"I'm ok, I think," he replied honestly. At last, he was yet to ascertain the state of his emotions.

 

Sicheng turned to perceive his surroundings. He was in a hospital room, however, it wasn't his own. The illumination within the room was dim, warm, possibly irradiated by candles as opposed to the usual cold, clinical hospital light that equipped every other space of the premises, and Sicheng welcomed the homey vibes that came with the change in atmosphere. Taeyong was there. He'd be fine.

 

After a few beats, Sicheng propped to sit up, and immediately Taeyong reached forward to assist; as if the younger was an injured animal of sorts, too bashful to enquire help and too frangible to move by itself. 

 

"What happened?" The boy slumberously rubbed at one of his lids. "Where am I?"

 

"I let the nurses carry you to a spare room while I dealt with him."

 

Sicheng barely retarded himself from querying 'Deal with who?' after for once, finally, properly registering what had transpired and he could acutely feel himself slip into a curt state of jar, shock, tears dreading to fall anew, but he successfully composed himself upon Taeyong's hand finding gentle hold of his own. Neither were positive who they were attempting to comfort; themselves or the other, but nonetheless the gesture provided a definite sense of security. Which seemed like enough for the moment.

 

"Where is he?"

 

"I don't know."

 

Sicheng bowed his head.

 

"So he's still–,"

 

"Yes."

 

Silence.

 

"How did you know?" Sicheng carefully chose his words, not wanting to address the subject directly in apprehension what it might inflict upon his sanity.

 

"A hunch," the doctor replied bitterly, gaze tramping off. "He's already given himself away the day before. Telling me that you're his."

 

He sounded pained, and suddenly it appeared all too perspicuous why the latter had been so avid to lay claim on him that very night. 

 

The desperation.

 

The chut.

 

 

_"Look at me now, being selfish enough to think that you're,"_

 

_"Think that I'm what."_

 

_"Mine."_

 

 

Sicheng let himself feel the other's hand in his own, clutched it with a particular boldness that directed the older's attention back towards his facies.

 

"What's going to happen?" He asked, despising and internally cursing the puerile tonality that laced his voice.

 

"I don't want to burden you with this right now, you should rest–,"

 

"Taeyong," he tautened his tone. "What's going to happen?"

 

The older faced him with somewhat baffled, when yet earnest mien and Sicheng admired how he still managed to appear absolutely poised despite downright exuding the aura of a crestfallen soul. Sicheng had a hunch the other would've pushed up his glasses at that very instant; if he had them sitting right atop that defined nose bridge of his.

 

"Well," Taeyong started, gravely. "What he did promise me was that he'd be back to get you–,"

 

" _No_."

 

Quickly cutting Sicheng off before the latter could spiral down into a fit of utter maddening panic, Taeyong proceeded recounting.

 

"I told him that the Korean police department would certainly appreciate it if he came back later so they could properly arrest him without the effort of following him to his hotel, whereon he said that he'd gladly enlighten them in his official statement about the shrink that's been screwing his underage patient whilst pretending to treat him of 'some mental humbug' and that I'm going to have a great time trying to win over all those witnesses that he's apparently already in the process of buying up with that shit-ton of a fortune that his greasy ass is mounted on, and that his, no, no, he said _your_ father is going to be very displeased with my services, which is the blandest consequence that I should be hoping for, apart from the very _self-evident_ that you will be removed from the facility as soon as he gets a word with your father, and last but not least," Ultimately, catching his breath after running on one exhale throughout the entire speech, "I told him to go fuck himself in the arse whereon he proceeded to leave the premises with a shiner, that was, astonishingly enough, on my account."

 

In spite of the last clause soaring with a somewhat lighter tone, Taeyong sat evidently defeated, mournful in every aspect of the word and if Sicheng wasn't quintessentially tongueless himself upon processing the outcome of such somber fate, he would've witted the internal disintegration that battered its cracks into the seemingly incorruptible armor of the man's bearing, yet his smile remained, tight, dejected, albeit candid as always when he monitored the process of realization after realization seeping into the younger's mien at agonizing rate.

 

There went Sicheng's safe place, his fortress, erected at the cost of his youth and innocence and yet again, he found himself stark in face of those who had thrown him over at the feet of blank, clinical nothingness to begin with, sloughed their youngest off at first offer as to merely seize what he had established at the very next. The walls that had threatened to crumble and collapse atop of him had finally given in, and the anguish of being graved underneath was more acute than Sicheng had estimated all those nights of visioned terror, unconscious, unwitting of _what_ it was that he was to brace himself for, unaware of what gaps to fill, what wing to ward, what to _protect_. The fear was constantly present, without the luxury of a threat to pin it on, merely a ghost, a presence without form and now it was coming for him and while he felt prepared, in the oddest sense, he felt starkly wounded.

 

"What now?" Sicheng heaved, yet having to register that his voice was already at the verge of cracking.

 

Taeyong's lips compressed, tightly, before he looked down, then up again, countering the younger with a more hopeful front.

 

"I sealed my fate when I touched you, Sicheng," the words came out with a difficulty that he likely wasn't conscious of. "Now it's on you to decide what you want to do. If you want," he paused. "If you _allow_ me; I will follow you. Whatever it is that you conclude. And that is final."

 

Expression grave, yet with a solemnity that Sicheng couldn't disregard, the man's position shifted till he was fully facing the younger as opposed to having both feet static on the floor, closing both palms around those flimsy, supple hands that felt as if they had never seen a day of work, devoid of the prominent, rough characteristics of his very own and yet, somehow, it fit so nicely anyway.

 

Sicheng saw hope in that. 

 

As dismal, messy, irredeemable the situation, Sicheng saw feasibility, and with that, he could work. 

 

With that, he _had_ to work.

 

 

"Take me away from here, Taeyong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo shit. that was some fucked up stuff.
> 
> just some last words to clear up the one or other thing here.
> 
> this is fiction; in case somebody had any doubts about that. in real life, i would never romanticize a relationship between a minor and a fucking thirty year old. that's. no. the reason i left them on good terms is that after careful contemplation (which included the option of taeyong abandoning winwin because he realizes just how fucked up the entire concept is) i concluded that i want to go with a positive ending; again, positive in the fictional world only. glad we talked about this. 
> 
> second of all; if any line in this sparked the belief that there's anything remotely close to romantic going on between sicheng and zheng, my apologies, you're misguided. zheng is getting old, has a moody, pregnant wife sitting at home, waiting for him, and he's not having it. he's out of his game. his life is boring. everything is going his way. it's blah. so what's the closest to adventure within reach? his obedient lil bro of course. the one who he'd expect to kiss his feet upon request. so no romance. just assholery. jackassery. cockiness. that's all.
> 
> now that we got that covered too, i hope you enjoyed!!!!
> 
> sorry if the ending felt rather rushed, in all honesty, i really really really wanted to get this done and it already took me 7638276 years so thanks to all those who kept up with my slow ass and. yeah.
> 
> thank you for reading!!
> 
>  
> 
> curse me for this on tumblr @1aeil


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